


The Girl Who Cried Werewolf

by aru_dight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Bigotry & Prejudice, Care of Magical Creatures, Comfort/Angst, Drama, Drama & Romance, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Hate to Love, Hurt/Comfort, Love/Hate, Plot Twists, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Secrets, Sexual Tension, Star-crossed, Stockholm Syndrome, Veela Draco Malfoy, Veela Mates, Werewolf Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-22 04:32:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11372649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aru_dight/pseuds/aru_dight
Summary: Draco Malfoy was far from a Prince Charming in disguise. He was a crude-mouthed beast who terrorizes women in their dreams, attacks their senses, and captures their heart never to set them free. Or that was just her?  Another Dramione Beauty and the Beast fic. Werewolf Draco with a twist. DMHG.





	1. Prologue: A Disappearance Most Missed

**Author's Note:**

> Please read and review! This is a Beauty and The Beast inspired fic. I hope you give my version a chance. I do not own the HP universe.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of newspaper clippings with large doses of mystery...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few great artists made covers for this fic. I can't thank them enough. The fic cover below was made by lupeymooney (from tumblr). There is another one but I'll post it somewhere appropriate in these chapters.

It was three in the morning. A man wearing a dripping, khaki trench coat strode purposefully towards a building that looked like it had seen better days. With the miniature cracks in the pillars of its facade, reconstructed walls, and retiled floors, it seemed that some things were unable to return to their former glory.

For an edifice situated in the Shadowlands, its expected appearance. ‘Shadowlands’ was the term for the boundary between the cheery streets of Diagon Alley and the shady ones of Knockturn Alley.

It was relatively quiet in the Auror's office. The lull of Celestina Warbeck's rich voice filled the background, as well as shuffling papers and boiling kettles.

It had been five years since the Second Wizarding War. Many things had changed since then.

One change was the distribution of the Auror force all over the British wizarding world. They adopted the idea of Police stations from their muggle counterparts.

The wizarding world was slowly, but surely, opening to the ideas and methodologies of muggles. Dwindling were the traditional Pureblood beliefs of the old wizarding world. Kingsley Shacklebolt's administration heralded these changes. The replacement of corrupt and biased Ministry officials was also a significant factor.

"Sinclair, you still here? Is there something wrong?" a pasty, bald wizard piped up from behind the front desk.

"The case baffles me, Hendricks. It was all so sudden, Hermione Granger's disappearance. It was like she vanished off the face of the earth," Sinclair replied.

"It baffles everyone. Or Harry Potter wouldn't even be here to check on any progress,"Hendricks continued, going over Auror reports filed since June, scant as they were. "The lad seemed determined to a fault. What if Skeeter's right? Perhaps she just had a secret rendezvous with a lover?"

Sinclair furrowed his brows. Harry Potter was a high-ranking Auror, and rest assured he was a busy wizard. He imagined how tiring it must be for the fellow to constantly visit every Auror office in the hopes of a single lead that pointed to his friend's whereabouts. He also imagined Harry Potter's disappointment in not finding any at all.

"And not tell her best friends?" Sinclair asked, doubtful. "She seemed like a terribly smart and practical woman. Skeeter has a knack for twisting the truth. She was  wrong before, who's to say she won't be wrong again?"

Hendricks shrugged his thick shoulders. "A woman is a woman, all the same. They have needs and a wicked desire for adventure."

Sinclair shook his head and chuckled. Hendricks has been reading those seedy romance novels again.

The lights flickered above a particular messy desk strewn with papers and news article clippings.The muggleborn Auror sighed.

The magical threads of the Aurors here were high-strung and exhausted. The magic in the building relied on these very threads, and it fluctuated due to the stress. It wouldn't surprise him if the building collapsed, burying them underneath debris.

The bulletin board directly above his desk was a stark contrast to the chaotic desk. There was a web diagram on it, detailing all leads and notes he had about the case.

Roth Sinclair never forgot his muggle roots, especially his father, who was a Chief Inspector himself in muggle London. His methods of investigation came from that man and the system used by the Thin Blue Line.

He pinned a news article obtained from his pocket beside another article labeled 'Possibly Connected'.

 

The article read:

 

_Manic Packs in Normandy_

_by Ginger Blanc_

_June 15, 2002_

 

_A fascinating phenomenon (or a phenomenal disaster) is currently occurring in Normandy, France. Packs of wolves have been flooding into the surrounding forests of the Risle Valley since last week. There has been an increase in werewolf activity in both the magical and muggle villages near the area. Aurors, especially Obliviators, are working overtime due to the heightened security breaches regarding the muggle population witnessing werewolf activities. As of now, there haven’t been any reported attacks. Yet precautionary measures are being strictly observed._

_Magical Creature experts are being called in as part of these precautionary measures. This phenomenon is quite the enigma, since werewolf sightings are very rare in these parts. The muggle population in Normandy far outweighs the wizarding population with a ratio of 23:10. Thus, few werewolves, if any , reside in the region._

_The most startling aspect of these occurrences is the gender of the werewolves, most of whom are female. When Aurors attempted to capture and detain them, they put up a fierce fight. They guard the forests, snorting and howling violently in the middle of the night. In an interview, an Auror described them as 'batshite crazy'._

_The French Ministry is trying its best to stabilize this issue. Only time would tell if this phenomenon is a temporary state of affairs or the start of a crisis._

 

Sinclair re-read the short paragraphs over and over again. This was an outright random  article to include in the investigation. It could just be a coincidence.

But he’d been in the business long enough to learn: coincidences are rarely coincidences.

He felt like the truth was right there, slapping him right in the face.

Sinclair's eyes wandered to the picture pinned to the Missing Persons case file that was lying on top of his desk.

She was beautiful, Ms. Granger. She had a charming smile and wide, warm brown eyes. In the picture, she wore her curly brown hair down to her shoulders and dressed in muggle clothing tight enough to look like a woman but loose enough to maintain professionalism. Her picture was plastered all over Britain in the hopes of solving her mysterious disappearance.

 

_Name: Hermione Jean Granger_

_Age: 23_

_Date of Birth: September 19, 1979_

 

He stopped reading the basic information, having memorized all of it.

 

_A Disappearance Most Missed_

_by Jin Chang_

_January 13, 2003_

 

_Hermione Granger. A name of much significance: Brightest Witch of Her Age, Muggleborn Heroine, one third of the Golden Trio, celebrated potioneer and Magical Creatures Advocate. The muggleborn witch has been missing since June 2002. Her mysterious disappearance, spanning almost seven months, has the British wizarding community shaken. Aurors all over the country are still investigating, led by none other than Harry Potter._

_The company she worked for reported that Ms. Granger was in France with Herbologist Neville Longbottom for research during the time she disappeared. They said their research was supposed to only last for two weeks. Investigations were launched immediately when both didn't return after the deadline._

_On June 30 2002, Neville Longbottom was found delirious and devoid of his memories concerning Ms. Granger's, and his, disappearance. Ms. Granger is still nowhere to be found._

_Where could she be? What could have possibly happened to her?_

_Her sudden and mysterious disappearance gave rise to speculation and conjecture. Rita Skeeter wrote in her column "Why worry so much about Hermione Granger? The Aurors, I think, are overreacting. A girl's disappearance is hardly a national crisis! She is a woman. Think about the implications this has! Hermione Granger surely eloped with a man! Maybe with Neville Longbottom - the boy did grow up handsome - or maybe not. The wizarding world knows about Ms. Granger's conquests. I daresay she is doing the wizarding world a favor by disappearing."_

_Rita Skeeter's words might have caused a stir or opened new eyes, yet the prominent sentiment of this news is sadness and regret. George Elyson, the famous Potioneer who supervised Ms. Granger's magical medicine education, said in an interview, "Ms. Granger's alarming disappearance is a great inconvenience for the wizarding world. The witch is a genius. It is even rumored that she was developing a cure for lycanthropy! Such secrets aren’t meant to be hidden, or, Merlin forbid, vanish altogether."_

 

Where could she be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revised:1-28-18. I hope you enjoy this story and join me as I jump head first in this roller coaster ride ;) Thank you to my alphas and betas [Sarah (sshanholtzer), Paulina (luunascope), and Nikki (Nevernik)]. A big shout out to Dorothy (dorothymalfoy) for the song rec. So what do you think?


	2. The Strange Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 7 months ago...

—•—•—•—

 

"When I leave town now I never tell my people where I am going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. It is a silly habit, I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a great deal of romance into one's life."

 

_-The Picture of Dorian Gray , Oscar Wilde._

 

"From the very first moment, I felt... danger there."

 

_\- American Horror Story, Season 6 (episode 1)_

 

"She didn't quite know what the relationship was between the lunatics and the moon, but it must be a strong one, if they use a word like that to describe the insane."

 

_\- Paolo Coelho_

 

_—•—•—•—_


	3. Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had a one-way ticket to a place where all the demons go  
> Where the wind don't change  
> And nothing in the ground can ever grow  
> No hope, just lies  
> And you're taught to cry into your pillow  
> But I survived

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own the HP universe. Lyrics above from the song Alive by Sia.

 

The bed creaked from under him. Draco Malfoy lay on his grey silk sheets, contemplating how much he had thoroughly ruined his life. The blonde man stood abruptly, clutching his head from the temporary blurry vision.

He was a simple man who was minding his own bloody business. If it wasn’t for her piercing scream and his bloody instincts, she would have died. And to think, Longbottom was with her! Talk about killing two birds with one stone! But no, he had to jump in and save them.

He wasn’t the kind to rescue damsels in distress. Especially ones he had not an ounce of concern for.

Draco groaned when a dark man with sculpted cheekbones and sleek, dark eyes entered the room.

"What did you do now, Draco?" said the man, bleary-eyed, as he brushed fine floo powder from his jacket sleeves.

"I just screwed up my life, Blaise."

 "What happened?" Blaise sank onto the plush lounge sofa opposite from where Draco sat at the foot of the bed.

Draco, the poor fellow, looked worse for wear. Worse than the spoiled, whining schoolboy from long ago. He grimaced before he answered. "Did you hear that?"

Blaise cocked his head to the side and strained his ears. "What am I supposed to hear? For Merlin's sake, I'm only mortal," he said with growing frustration.

 We- I have a problem." He looked ominously at the shadows in his bedroom. "A bushy-haired problem," he added ruefully.

 

—•—•—•—

  


A woman lay on the cold, hard dungeon floor.

She looked dirty and worn out, as if she’d just fought a multitude of wars and painstakingly survived. Her curly brown hair was matted and frizzy - much frizzier than normal, if that was humanly possible. It served as a pillow for her head in her unconscious state.

 _She was running towards a steep cliff. The wind carried bloodcurdling howls through the dead of night. Looking back and knowing they were near, she realized there was nowhere else to go but down._  

_She remembered attempting to jump. The fear of it was heart-pounding._

_A flash of silver pinned her to the ground and roared. Its teeth were bared and gleamed in the moonlight..._  

Hermione Granger woke with a gasp. Her brown eyes opened wide in vivid awareness. Her head spun in different directions and her vision blurred around the edges.

 "Ah!" She hissed in pain.

 Her muscles strained as she sat upright. She might have outrun a centaur or insulted a hippogriff, but the damage she’d put her body through was now biting her in the arse. She could barely move anything at all. Her head was mush and her limbs were dead weights.

 She tried standing, but ended up crawling weakly to the cast-iron door. Only when she raised her arms to pound on it did she see her torn coat sleeves. Her hands frantically roamed over her body for further inspection. There was a gash on the back of her head where dried blood caked her neck. Multiple bruises and minor cuts covered her body. She found more torn clothing, especially around the shoulders and hems of her coat.

 On top of all that, the door was locked. It seemed to only open from the outside.

 Panic rose in her throat. Unable to scream without her voice cracking, she huddled on the floor. Tears pooled in her eyes.

 Hermione Granger felt hopeless.

 Just then, a pop echoed inside the cell. A tiny elf appeared. "Oh! Miss is awake. Presto thought Master killed Miss." The elf sounded relieved. "Miss is guest of Master."

 

—•—•—•—

 

"WHERE THE HELL AM I?"

Once again, Draco buried his miserable face between his knotted fingers as if in prayer. His platinum blonde fringe fell to completely conceal his eyes. A grimace distorted his fine, handsome face.

He could hear, with vicious clarity and sharpness, his 'guest' shrieking. Her voice was already grating in its normal tone, but screeching? Really? His ears never felt more violated. It was irritating!

"What will you do with her?" Blaise asked warily. Draco had other, more demanding personal entanglements. Anyone with a brain in between their ears would understand how much a risk this little stunt cost him.

"I think I have a way to finally end things. Once and for all."

 

—•—•—•—

 

"No! Where are you taking me?" Hermione shook her hand away from the elf's grasp.

The elf's ears drooped and his eyes turned glassy. She was suddenly reminded of Dobby, the late house elf Harry freed from Lucius Malfoy. The first liberated house elf.

Presto, as this elf called himself, bawled. "Master told Presto to take Miss to her room!"

Hermione was taken aback. "’Her room’?" Why did the elf say she was a guest?

If she was a guest, this so-called 'host' was a terrible one. Who would leave their guest lying bloody and bruised in a dungeon?

The whole situation was absurd. Hermione didn’t understand the joke.

 And what did her yelling prove? The house elf belonged to his Master and was only compelled to do his bidding. She shouldn’t take out her anger, panic, or frustration out on the little guy. She felt guilty for her rudeness towards the elf.

The elf took heaving breaths and wiped his tears with his rag-clothes. Almost all his words were incoherent, nasally sobs. The words 'Master', 'Miss', and 'Presto' were all she made out.

 She bent down on her knees. "Alright, alright. Presto, is it?"

 The house elf nodded still wiping his tears.

 "I'm sorry for yelling at you—"

 Without warning, Presto wailed and another batch of tears dripped relentlessly down his wrinkly face. "Presto is a naughty, naughty elf! Miss shouldn't say sorry to Presto. He is only a lowly house elf." He bowed to her so low his nose nearly touched the ground.

 Great. An obsessively loyal house elf with a slavery complex. His Master would be a delightful person, surely. He must be another entitled and medieval Pureblood.

 Maybe she should meet with this elf's Master. She would give him a piece of her mind, knock some sense into him. Maybe she could teach him a manner or two.

 "You poor, poor elf!"

 Presto cried aloud again. It was getting tiresome, placating a house elf like this. Sometimes she thought they were masochists.

 Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose to soothe the pain twitching in between her eyes. "Alright! Stop, already!" she sighed. "Take me to your Master."

 The elf's face brightened instantly. "Miss will like her room. Presto laid out clothes for Miss!"

 Hermione gravely nodded her head, partly relieved that the elf had returned to its cheerful state, the way it was when it first found her. He helped her stand up and led her away from her cold and dark dungeon.

 It worried Hermione how easy it was to follow an elf to 'her room' when she had no clue where on earth she was and who owned this… whatever this place was.

 There were more cells in the dungeon than she initially thought. There was a long, wide hall of them. It was deathly silent and surprisingly odorless. She read about dungeons in fantasy books always reeking of 'piss, rust, and torture'. She also read about how it sounded of 'screams of agony'. This dungeon featured none of those things. In fact, it seemed empty.

 Frankly, the brunette was a tad disappointed. If there were more prisoners here, she wouldn't be alone. She could have organized a revolt against this 'Master,' or at least learn something useful about him.

 Then she remembered.

 "Presto, did you see a man here?” Hermione asked urgently. “A man who might have come here with me. His name is Neville Longbottom." She couldn't believe she forgot about him! Hope lifted her spirits a little; she might not be alone. Yet it sunk again at the thought of him suffering, or even lost.

 The only things she knew, from what she hazily remembered, were flashes of greenery… running… moonlight… howls… and jumping. Other than that, it was a series of blank spaces in her memory.

 The witch and the elf went up sets of twisting stairs until they reached a dimly-lit landing.

 "Presto is not allowed to say, Miss."

 "But-"

 Presto opened the doors which led to a vastly different world than the dark dungeon cells. It was another floor, one far above the dungeons. Instead of darkness and Spartan stone walls, there were lamps lining the walls and velvet drapes on the opposite wall, possibly concealing windows. Hermione wanted to draw one to the side to get a glimpse outside her gilded cage.

 The elf led her to multiple corridors, each more elegant than the last. There so many turns it was almost dizzying. At last, with one set of double doors finally opened, she entered a beautiful and opulent ballroom.

 The floors were made out of pure marble. The random patterns swirled in different directions, making it aesthetically pleasing. There were rows of tall columns with detailed gold friezes. A large crystal chandelier hung down from the sophisticatedly moulded high ceiling. Sculpted cherubs and wolves were like sentries watching from above. A spot of platinum moonlight shone brightly through a gap in the French rose windows. At its farthest end were magnificent double doors, which looked like the main formal entrance.

 "Where am I?" she asked in awe.

"Presto is to keep his mouth shut." He made the gesture of zipping his lips.

Hermione sighed. She would learn more eventually.

Her eyes roved around the ballroom, taking in the breathtaking details of the architecture. But the more she looked, the more she could sense the darkness that somehow seemed to lurk there. It wasn't anything supernatural of the sort. She didn't mean the drawn velvet drapes encasing the ballroom with darkness, either. Suddenly, the cherubs looked like demon babies, and the wolves like feral creatures. Awe was slowly morphing to horror.

She followed the elf out of the Ballroom and up the grand staircase. Hermione could barely catch up with the twists and turns as they passed through more serpentine corridors.

For such a short-legged creature, Presto walked fast and sure. She tried to recall the steps or any landmark she could remember. Anything - paintings, statues, furniture. There were so many it was quite impossible, unless she had a pensieve at her disposal.

After what seemed like hours, their excursion came to a stop. She was thrust into a massive, midnight-blue-themed bedroom. It was accented by white pieces that balanced the dark undertones. A four-poster bed with matching mesh curtains like the midnight sky spattered with faint silver glitters seemed inviting to be slept on. There was a lounge chair, an empty bookshelf, a matching white painted desk and armoire.

Presto snapped his fingers and the lamps on the bedside tables lit up. The fireplace sparked, followed by the appearance of a crackling fire.

Hermione looked out of the window for the first time. What met her eyes was an ethereal sight, almost surreal. The view from the window was a peaceful glen in a lush shade of green. The landscape was as magnificent and luxurious as the interior of the house. If this place even was a house. It could be a castle.

"Presto cure Miss now."

He grabbed her hand to sit her on the edge of the bed. With a snap of his finger, a tray of healing potions and salves materialized from thin air. He dabbed, rubbed, and numbed all her injuries. The bruises were left to heal on their own.

Presto went inside another door near one of the windows. Hermione heard water running, saw steam billowing out of the door. "Bath ready now, Miss."

"Presto, would you mind turning around?" Hermione would absolutely not put a toe in that divinely warm water with a wide-eyed elf staring at her. The elf looked hesitant to leave her alone. "Plea… I mean, go guard the door."

As much as she wanted to soak until her skin pruned up, she didn't. It felt wrong to relax in an unknown environment such as this. This wasn’t home.

Her body felt raw and dirty when she stood up from her quick soak to dress hurriedly, putting on the fresh clothes Presto prepared.

The water was still hot when she exited the bathroom.

Would the elf notice if she jumped out the window?

But it was impossible. Not for the reconnaissance issue, but for the height of the window from solid ground. It was so high, she would have died before making it halfway down, never mind the certain death that would await her when her body smashed on the ground.

She rattled the doorknob; and what a surprise! It was locked. She rested her forehead to the door. "Please don't leave me here."

A pop of apparition from behind made her jump. "Master will see you now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the reviews you guys left. I didn't think anybody would react to it this early on in the story. I hope you like this chapter. Does it set the scene nicely? No? Please don't hesitate to tell me what you think (I accept everything). 
> 
> Revised:1-28-18. Thank you to my alphas and betas [Sarah (sshanholtzer), Paulina (luunascope), and Nikki (Nevernik)]. A big shout out to Dorothy (dorothymalfoy) for the song rec.


	4. Can't Sleep, Can't Breath.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dire straits and dirty consequences  
> An invitation to your personal disaster  
> It's a point break  
> Another guilty conscience  
> And I won't stop you til you get just what you're after

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own the HP Universe. Song lyrics are from the song "Can't Breath, Can't sleep!" by Digital Daggers.

Draco Malfoy's urgent strides made his black robes rustle.

Flashes of moonlight pierced the heavily-draped windows along the dark corridors. With a flick of his wand, nothing but torchlight illuminated his way.

One of the duties of the Man of the House was to know his house like the back of his hand. Draco did just that. He knew every turn, nook, and cranny. Yet he wandered aimlessly around the halls for what seemed like an eternity, like a traveler lost in some distant wood.

A Slytherin values self-preservation in the midst of crisis, but in this case he was hurtling to his doom, nearing her bedroom with every step he took. Led by nothing but blind instinct and turmoil.

To delay this meeting was a defense mechanism already wearing thin. Still, he took the longest route to where his 'guest' was staying, taking every distraction along the way. He paused to admire a painting, inspect a statue, and tried to avoid a window crack. He savored these time-wasters.

Draco couldn't avoid the major problem in his household, in the shape of a bushy-haired, know-it-all swot of a female. He could feel her presence, like a grain of sand at first; but as he neared her, the sand slowly accumulated to form a raging sandstorm.

Presto relocated her to the wing farthest from his. Good. The last thing he wanted was Hermione Granger finding out his secret. Draco sighed, hoping these thick walls could prevent an annoying, meddlesome, little muggleborn Gryffindor from doing just that.

Except she would find out when she had the courage, or even just the sense of direction, to leave her room.

Courage? She had plenty of that. 

While he, on the other hand, had nothing of the sort. He's like he always was, even after nearly a decade.

At last, his legs reluctantly carried him to his destination. He imagined the possible scenarios he might face. What would he find waiting for him?

What had happened to Hermione Granger after all these years?

Draco sighed heavily. Imagination won’t get him anywhere. Action would. There was no alternative. He had to face the woman on the other side of the door.

It was crucial -  for both his survival and his sanity.

Draco could be called a fugitive, in his own way. His family’s reputation was ruined after the war. But there was more to it than that. Far more dangerous reasons.

A few deep breaths passed his lips, yet he couldn’t turn the doorknob. An unusual uneasiness possessed him even at that moment.

He grew up privileged, filthy rich even; born with a silver spoon jammed deep in his throat. In his school days, he was fearfully worshipped. His aristocratic good looks lightened his weightless burden even more.

Uneasiness did not suit him; nor did it come naturally to him.

Yet there was some unidentified expectation niggling at him. An expectation that belonged to a past life.

Maybe it was because he never saw anybody else - except select individuals and family - for the past five years since the war. He hid in these walls without a care for the outside world, and hadn’t yet grasped the idea of being found.

It seemed that Draco had forgotten how to interact with other people that belonged in… the world out there. He’d forgotten how to act. More specifically, he’d forgotten how to act in front of a childhood nemesis.

Was there a handbook for recluses like him? A signed, leather-bound, edition of  _ A Mechanical Handbook for Reclusive Enemies: How to Deal with Past Hates _ . He certainly needed that book.

Maybe if he came out of this unscathed, he’d write it himself.

The only thing he was certain of was the fact that this woman would either be his salvation or his undoing. She held his fate in her hands.

Not for the reasons one might think.

This isn't some silly love story.

 

—•—•—•—

 

He slid inside the creaking door.

The room was unremarkable enough. Unremarkable, considering it was one of the many quarters identical in design and furnishing in the mansion's Eastern Wing. Yet it wouldn't be considered as such if compared to other bedrooms in other houses.

It was dark, yet his eyes asserted no effort in being able to see. Instinctual, it could be said.

But there, seated on a chair, elbows resting on the desk, was Hermione Granger. 

She was bathed in the silvery glow of raw moonlight from the undraped window facing the desk.Her profile was visible from his position. The same untamed brown hair, intelligent forehead, wide brown eyes, slightly upturned nose, and stubborn chin. She stared at the moon intently, as if she was fascinated by its bright, waning globe.

Draco could relate. The moon, indeed, could be beautiful; yet deadly in its own right. It could transform something ordinary to extraordinary in a matter of minutes once under its ethereal light. It could also do the opposite under the same conditions.

Like Hermione Granger. She looked out of this world wearing the moonlight. Wearing what looked like... flimsy mauve nightclothes?

The idea of throttling a certain house elf crossed his mind. He told Presto to acquire clothes for their female 'guest'. How was he supposed to know the elf had taste? Or lack thereof. He drilled into his mind that in this case, Presto had no taste in fashion. Honestly, the nightie could be considered lingerie!

Draco did not fail to notice that Hermione Granger had grown up. She had come a very long way from the Hogwarts schoolgirl she once was.

She turned her head in his direction, snapping out of her reverie. The slight draft in the room blew a stray curl across her face.

"Hello? Is anybody there?" she gasped.

Draco came closer to the concentration of light that only she was illuminated by. 

The flashing effect of their moving silhouettes was waking the monster he so desperately and painstakingly subdued.The sound of her frantic heartbeats and the strong scent of wild orchids invaded his senses. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe this was a stupid idea of epic proportions.

_ 'She feels like she’s prey. Afraid and cornered,' _ the monster inside him purred.

He balled his fists, sweat moistening the crooks between his fingers. Those parts weren’t the only ones sweating. His whole body was sweating buckets underneath his cloak.

Granger stood up, clutching the edges of the desk behind her. "Who are you?"

More of her erratic, unsteady, heartbeats.

The monster was pleased. So, Draco would have to be the killjoy he had always been.

"I am the Master.”

 

—•—•—•—

 

Hermione stood very still. She pressed herself as far behind the desk as was possible.

There was someone in the shadows. His voice was…she felt a pull to it. It was deep, soft, and hypnotic. Her eyes started to drift shut.

No!

"Constant vigilance," her inner voice said.

She glared at the approaching figure, but she wasn't any braver than a mouse cornered by an alley cat.

"Show yourself!" she called out. "Step into the light!"

A robed figure materialized from the darkness. He wore a cloak that concealed every inch of his body. The white, neutral drama mask didn't allow her a glimpse of his face, either.

"I'm afraid I can’t," he said. 

It bothered her that the mouth of the drama mask wasn't moving as he spoke. Like talking to a reverse pantomime.

"Why?" Her voice quivered.

He was in front of her now. Closer than anybody would be comfortable with.

Yet there was something about the mysterious man that calmed her… lulled her... she couldn't explain it. Whatever that 'something' was, it muddled her mind.

There was nothing scarier for Hermione than losing her wits. It was enough to wake her from the trance he almost induced in her.

Hermione pushed him away with all her might. "Let me go!"

He toppled to the floor, his cloak flying with a rush of air. The mask was misplaced from his face.

Maybe it was her imagination, but she swore she saw a flash of gray eyes staring at her like he wanted to eat her alive. It sent chills down her spine.

The cloaked man growled inhumanly. "You shouldn't have done that."

Hermione didn't know what to do. The man was panting and his gloved hands were fisted so tightly.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

She dropped to her knees. He seemed to be writhing in pain. She should have tugged the mask away from his face and be done with this secret identity nonsense. But she didn't. Her hands steadied his shaking shoulders.

"Don't ever do that again!" he growled again. It was his turn to grab her shoulders. Except he grabbed them with lightning speed and animal-like strength. She whimpered as he pulled her under his weight, his legs restricting her movements.

His grip would surely bruise. She caught his eyes, gray circled with ever-widening violet.

"Please, don't hurt me." 

She was pinned beneath him, unable to move from shock and fear. She, too, was panting, her breaths uneven and strained.

"Pleasepleasepleaseplease..." 

She chanted the word in whispers. Closing her eyes, she anticipated an attack. Her heart thundered in her ears. It seemed to develop another beat, another speed, one that was foreign to her.

She felt his restraint in the way the tension coiled in his hands and arms that encircled her shoulder blades. He grasped her like a child holding a china vase who knew his mother would spank him if he dropped it. She wondered how much restraint this man had.

They stayed like that for a moment, both with heavy breaths and unmoving appendages.

"If you don't want to get hurt, you do as I say." 

He was literally breathing down her neck. His breath was hot, yet his voice was cold. "Don't ever push me again. You're a bossy witch and you're used to getting what you want, but you're in my territory now. You bend to my rules."

Gone was the hypnotic charm. It was replaced by an aura of fear, magnified to an awfully threatening degree.

"Yes," she whispered.

"And next time, actually scrub when you take a bath. You stink." 

She hear his sneer when he spoke. It couldn't be seen, and could have been interpreted as stern or even rude. But there was a familiarity to it that she couldn't quite remember - the information from the memory seemed elusive.

She stared at him dumbly. How did he know she didn't really take a bath? Does she really stink that much?

This man was becoming more obscure by the minute.

"How did you know I'm bossy?" It was a question born of curiosity.

It was met with silence. She prodded. "How do you know me?”

"The next rule," he countered, "is I ask the questions."

"No!" Her temper rose a centigrade. "I know my rights, sir. It’s against the law to hold me captive against my will. If you let me go, and tell me where I can find Neville Longbottom, my colleague, I’ll let it slip that we got lost and you helped us to navigate the roads, not that you took me without my consent.” Hermione was proud of herself for not allowing her nerves to take over and make her voice waver.

He laughed. A cruel, mocking laugh. It was as if she was offering him a deal worth nonsense. With friends like hers, kind but with a well-developed sense of ruthlessness, they would make this man suffer.

"My friends are world-class Aurors. They’ll go to the extent of their powers to find us, and when they do you’ll regret it." Her earlier calmness was replaced by a feral snarl.

He laughed at her again. "You haven't changed, Hermione Granger. You think you always have the upper hand. You think you're better than everybody else. I'm telling you now, your so-called rights are nothing. Potter and Weasley can't find you here."

She flushed in anger at his crude evaluation of her character, when clearly he didn't know her at all. She couldn’t remember ever meeting a person this big-headed before. Not to mention rude!

Of course, there were so many in the world like him. There was, in fact, someone who almost fit this certain kind of infuriating arrogance. That certain someone was far away from Europe, so they say.

"Nobody, not even a self-important arsehole like you, can take those away from me," she retorted.

"Your rights are nothing," he repeated. He leaned towards her ear. "Not in this part of the valley."

He relinquished his grip on her arms and unhooked his legs that clamped hers together. His robes felt soft and expensive - much like the rest of the place - as it brushed against her bare skin.

The man took a long dragging breath. "Get up."

Hermione hadn't yet recovered from her daze. She slowly lifted her torso from the floor. Her hands massaged the sore flesh of her arms where his bruising grip held it. She felt his eyes on her, and that knowledge made her skin prickle.

"I'll show you where Longbottom is."

He straightened and brushed his robes as if he dirtied himself in the scuffle. When she didn't immediately move he said "I'll just leave him unconscious in the dungeon, then."

She turned her head sharply in his direction and glared. "You left him in the dungeons?" she hissed. She stood and scrambled to catch up with her captor as fast as her legs would allow.

The 'Master' was tall. She didn't realize how long and limber his legs were. Her own legs were shorter in comparison so she had to jog to keep up with him. The sound of their angry feet stomping against the floor of an otherwise quiet hall was deafening.

"You said, 'Not in this part of the valley.' What do you mean? Am I still in the Risle Valley?"

Her questions were ignored.

They traversed down winding staircases, more hallways, and even more dark passageways. His steps were swift and steady. He didn't stop or slow down for the female behind him, her breath huffing as she tried to match his strides.

When she finally reached his side, she yanked his arm. "Stop!" 

He halted, looking down his nose at her like an adult patronizing a child. 

Her fiery brown eyes were flashing with unadulterated fury. "What kind of monster are you?"

Honestly, Draco had little patience for Hermione’s annoying questions. But her dramatic sentiments made him snap. Overreactions were not his forte. He was a neutral kind of man. Well, as neutral as he could possibly afford to be. Emotions, obviously, were not his cup of tea, either.

He heard her cries, felt her emotions scattered all over the place, and smelled her cloying wild orchid scent. It sent him scrambling in the dark, searching his reclusive self for information on how to deal with this situation.

Fight or flight? He wouldn't damn well let Hermione Granger scare him, that's for sure. Fight... except he didn't want to murder her (both in cold or hot blood).

When she yanked his arm, he shifted so he could grab hers instead and twisted her around, pinning her back to his chest. She gasped, shocked at the way he was so easily able to contort her to his will. The muscles of his chest were firm and unyielding as he held her to him.

"The kind of monster you'll regret crossing," he snarled. He then let her go. She spun around and met his gaze with rivaling intensity.

He wanted to pull his hair out. She never knew when to quit!

Draco recognized the school girl he once knew. The fiery depths of her eyes stared at him just like he remembered her doing years ago. Horror dawned on him. Nostalgia was knocking on his door.

If there was one thing Draco detested in the whole world, it was nostalgia. It brought back memories of days long past. The bad, and the good. She was a major reminder of a time he never wanted to relive. At the same time, she reminded him of the good old days he missed, yet could not afford to do so.

Her presence confused him, stirred him. And he hated every moment of it.

Who was she to throw off his hard-achieved equilibrium and stability?

He put her down and continued to stomp towards the dungeons. She stayed silent the rest of the way. Without turning his head, he could tell she was mapping out the place. Learning and evaluating. His motion sensor-like perception tracked her eye movements. She was probably looking for a means of escape.

She wouldn't have any when the time comes. Magic wouldn't let her.

 

—•—•—•—

 

Hermione loathed the masked man marching in front of her every time  her bare footsteps touched the ground.

It struck her how strong he was. His restraint when he pinned her to her bedroom floor earlier was present in the way he grabbed her arm just now . The muscle memory of her arm trapped by his grip remained taut long after he released her. She massaged this area, consoling said muscles. It was as if her body was taken aback by this information. Her brain, most likely, was the one taken aback. Possibly her common sense.

Because she had the feeling he was doing it for her sake rather than his. 

She brushed the thought from her mind. Someone this entitled, arrogant, and violent had other agendas on his mind.Hermione only hoped she and Neville wouldn't have to stick around long enough to know what.

Before she knew it, the familiar doors leading to the dungeons creaked open. The still-remembered darkness of it invaded her senses yet again, gnawing at her damaged nerves and vivid imagination. In her head, she heard howls and screaming. Hermione shook them away.

It was silent in the dungeons, save for the rats and squeaking cast-iron hinges .

Her masked captor lead her inside a cell identical to the one she woke up in. At first, she thought it was empty. She was about to demand if this was a joke meant to play on her worry for her friend and colleague.

But, if one stayed quiet, groans and faint breaths could be heard underneath the strong silence.

Hermione gasped, "Neville!" She went over to where he lay, unconscious. Cradling his head on her lap, she shook him awake. "Can you hear me? Please, wake up!" Her hands traveled to his pulse point and was relieved to feel his heartbeat, however slow and faint they might be. He was alive.

A groan sounding like "Heymyanie" whispered from his dry and parched mouth.

She felt ultimate hatred for the man standing by the door, watching them, impassive to it all.

"You bastard! How could you leave him like this? He could have died!" She clutched Neville's torn jacket so tight her knuckles felt numb.

"You overreact, Granger. Both of you were here only for three hours. I ordered Presto to take you to your rooms when you awoke."

Hermione was once again shocked by this cryptic man. They were only unconscious for three hours? That seemed impossible! It felt like days. Her body felt like it hurt like days.

"Neville has health complications!” she said hotly. Take him to a decent room and bring medicine." When nothing happened, she begged "Please. He'll die if you don't.”

With a snap of the Master’s  finger, Presto appeared, levitating Neville like he was a dead weight out of the terrible dungeons.

"You!" she pointed accusingly at her masked captor. She badly wanted to punch that neutral drama mask off his face. To truly make the expression underneath neutral forever. "If you don't let us go this instant, I will make sure you die by the end of the day!"

It wasn't an empty threat. She was trained in five different martial arts. However strong this man was, she could beat him to a pulp. If she wasn't so sore, confused, and shocked she would have done so already.

The man lounged in the darkness the cell provided. He clicked his tongue. "You can try leaving this house, but I assure you, both of you will turn to ashes by the end of the day, and I won’t be the reason why."

"Why?" she asked softly. The tone of his voice wasn't threatening. It was matter-of-fact .

"Are you aware of what a wizard's debt is, Granger?"

Hermione's mind reeled. She read about it once or twice, yes. It was one of the oldest magics, neither Dark nor Light.

He interpreted her silence as ignorance. "Ms. Granger, a wizard's debt is a bond between wizards which only death may sever. The debt is repaid only if the debtor considers it so —"

"A wizard's debt is a debt acquired when a wizard is saved by another." Hermione continued his explanation. One could save another's life one way or  the other and it could be considered a wizard's debt. But... a wizard's debt that could kill if that debt was violated... it meant the debtor declared it a debt.

This man knew his powerful magic. Irrevocable ones. Dangerous ones.

"How are we possibly indebted to you?" she asked, her dread growing threefold by the minute,  disbelieving of the implication that this vile man saved both hers and Neville's life. His agendas were taking shape in her head now. Clearer and clearer.

"My wolf saved your lives." 

She gasped as he replied. "I take it you remember?"

Yes. A silver wolf with deep violet eyes, teeth bared and gleaming.

She sighed in defeat. "What do you want as payment for our debt?" She wouldn't risk going against magic older than the division of Dark magic and Light. It withstood the test of time for a reason: it works.

His voice was a mere whisper, but it rang loud and deep in her ears. He was whispering in her again.

"You. I want you."

Hermione froze. No. Definitely not. She would not be used like that in any way. If he dared touch her with the intention she thought he had in mind, he would really receive the full extent of her wrath. Her body hummed with the dangerous electricity of her magic, manifesting in slight sparks from her hair.

The stranger recoiled from her, accompanied  by mock retching sounds. She couldn't see, but she  heard his grimace. "Get over yourself, Granger. As if I would touch a mudblood like you. Never in a million years.Not even if you were the last woman on earth," he spat.

"Then what do you want from me?" She wasn't’ sure whether  she felt relieved or hurt by his proclamation of revulsion for her kind. Anger was the one emotion that was as  clear as day in her repertoire of emotions.

"I need your services."

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revised:1-28-18. Thank you to my alphas and betas [Sarah (sshanholtzer), Paulina (luunascope), and Nikki (Nevernik)]. A big shout out to Dorothy (dorothymalfoy) for the song rec. So what do you think?


	5. Muddy Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I will ask you for mercy  
> I will come to you blind  
> What you’ll see is the worst me  
> Not the last of my kind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song lyrics from the song "Muddy Waters" by LP

Neville whimpered as his body was levitated on to the plush bed. Witnessing his pain upset Hermione's stomach violently. He murmured incoherent sentences in his semi-unconscious state. His complexion took on a pallor reminiscent of the estate’s marble flooring .

"Presto, get me some sugar and warm water. I need it now. Go quickly," she ordered urgently.

Hermione smoothed out Neville's messy mop of dark hair that was dampened by sweat, despite the chilly temperature. The dungeons were cold. It was impossible for him to sweat this much.

"You'll be alright," she whispered in his ear. To whom the comforting words were addressed, rest assured it wasn’t only for the sick man trembling on the bed.She herself needed to hear the words

Guilt threaded itself into her very thoughts. Her face contorted, ready to cry with just one more sad, depressing detail. 

Rigid - another adjective to describe her state at the moment. She couldn't run, couldn't hide; and she couldn't bloody well escape.

It was her fault they were in this mess. She wanted to see the werewolf sightings for herself. She was the one who begged Neville for an unplanned excursion. Now, her own curiosity and recklessness would be the death of them

Hermione covered her face with her hands, suppressing  a wild desire to scream.

They were both trapped in this beautiful hellhole with an unknown, violent, and ferocious captor. An ironic, dramatic captor  who wore neutral drama masks without being neutral at all.

Speaking of whom , he camouflaged himself in the shadows, watching.

"If something happens to Neville, I... you... ugh!" Her  anger, which had yet to cease, twisted her tongue into an unmanageable knot. He rendered her speechless. His audacity in kidnapping them for his purely selfish reasons made her sick.

"What's wrong with Longbottom?" His question was asked nonchalantly, but concern laced its edges. Odd. How did she come up with that deluded thought?

"What's wrong with him?" she hissed with bared teeth. "What's wrong with him is that he has diabetes. That's what's bloody wrong with him!"

His silence showed more personality than his words or actions ever could. It created more questions, as well.

"You don't know about diabetes, do you?" she assumed. If he didn't, his ignorance might be a leeway for an escape. Maybe he was ignorant about many other things, too.

"I know what it is, witch," he said rather defensively. Hermione flinched when he appeared at her side, took a seat on the bed and stared at Neville.

"You do know he won't survive without insulin shots?" She eyed him sharply. "How can we  find any in the middle of the freaking woods?"

More silence.

"You didn't think this through, did you?" Oh, how she wanted to feel triumphant in shutting this unskilled kidnapper up, yet her accusations only intensified her dread.

What if he didn't survive?

"Give him the sugar and water mixture to prevent hypoglycemia,” he said. “He exerted more effort running through the woods today. My wolf found him ninety-six metres away from you. He resisted when the wolf caught him and ran even more."

She was taken aback at his well-informed reply and objectivity - the way he solved a problem head on, ignoring her slight.

If what the man said was true, Hermione could only imagine the overexertion that was already taking a toll on Neville's health.

They were both pacing, unsure of what to do next. She could brew potions to generate more insulin, but there was no time for brewing.

She took Neville's trembling hands in hers. A determined look flashed in her eyes. Leaning towards his ear, she whispered, "I'll get you out of here. I promise." 

Hermione had no clue how to keep her promise. But she would die trying.

Their kidnapper stood by the doorway again, swallowed by the shadows. "How did Longbottom even get diabetes?" He sounded genuinely curious, his question showing no trace of cruelty or malice.

"He got it from his father's side of the family. When we found out he had it, it didn't shock me at all”—

Hermione bit her lip at her blunder. Babbling had always been a habit of hers whenever she was confronted with extreme amounts of pressure. She wasn't supposed to divulge details to this cryptic, obviously deranged man. She didn’t know  him at all. Yet the way he listened to her implied that he knew them, and even worse, he knew her.

"Presto is here with the sugar and warm water, Miss." The elf apparated inside the bedroom, making her jump.

"Put it here," she said, indicating the side table of Neville's bed. Hermione mixed the sugar and water together until all the sugar dissolved, then tipped the mixture down Neville's nostrils sparingly.

"Come on, come on. Work, work, work!" she ordered. Hermione kept repeating the procedure with the same amounts.

The sugar and water mixture would raise the blood sugar levels; but unlike glucose tablets that would have instant results, the sugar solution would yield less immediate ones.

After a few minutes of constantly easing the liquid into his system, a weak groan, but a groan nonetheless, signaled the simple first aid method’s effectiveness. .

His eyes were fully open by the time dawn broke on the horizon.

 

—•—•—•—

 

Glasses clinked and jars were upturned. Pots and pans banged upon wood and marble. The stove hummed and sparked in anticipation of heating the next meal. Utensils clattered together, forming a symphony of kitchen noises.

The sounds, as well as the sight, disturbed the kitchen’s usually quiet hum.

Two house elves, one female and one male, stared bug-eyed at the foreign witch raiding their kitchen. Her bushy curls buried themselves inside one cabinet or cupboard at a time. It was an experience for them to see a woman, or any human being, step inside their kitchen. None of them had ever seen it, not even their Master.

The house elves were overjoyed to see their Master, even if he looked odd with a cloak and mask, accompany a furiously huffing woman around, now leaving trails of sugar wherever she went.

Their master was an elusive man. He kept to himself most of the time. His mother occasionally visited, yet one could easily describe ‘occasionally’ as any measure of time. Occasionally, in this case, meant once or twice in two months. Friends… they only recognized two as constant guests in the Mansion.

The kitchen, with its black marble countertops, dark oak cupboards, and state-of-the-art utensils was opulent, matching the other opulent rooms and halls in the mansion.The house elves loved cleaning and servicing the very old walls of Silverwood Mansion.

"What can we help you with, Miss?" 

Both house elves stared hopefully at the stranger. And looked, with equal measures of hope and delight, at their Master. He stiffly nodded his head , granting them permission to obey the woman.

"Bring me these ingredients." She handed them a list.

"Granger, let the house elves do their jobs. You can just order them to make what Longbottom needs to consume."

The woman eyed their Master angrily. "I don't trust”— Her words faltered and her expression softened, looking down on them both. She smiled, before glancing back at the man.

"I don't trust you." She held such a hateful look on her face that it seemed like her eyes were on fire.

"Presto, Krestin, get what the lady requires and don't come back here unless I summon you." Their Master, too, sounded angry and hateful.

Looking at both of the humans alternately, the elves were torn, wanting to stay and protect the lady from their Master. He'd ordered them to do this  if he ever got dangerously angry. They didn't like their Master angry. He turned into something truly frightful.

But house elves were not the entirely self-sacrificing creatures everyone in the wizarding world thought. Subservience was just a self-preservation instinct.

And so they both left. That was what the Master ordered.

 

—•—•—•—

"The gall of this woman!" Draco thought. He wanted to wring her pretty little neck for overturning his kitchen, as well as his life, into this mess. He should have obliviated her and Longbottom and shipped them inside a crate back to jolly old England.

 

What was he reduced to? The Malfoy heir and sole inheritor of multiple-billions of Galleons in estates, stocks, and shares was letting  a plebeian, muggleborn, soon-to-be-Weasley-wife, inheritor of mismatched home-knitted socks, bully him into raiding his kitchen.

"You’re a witch, you can magic that meal to cook itself."

She snorted. "Oh, pray tell, dear Master, where would my wand be?"

He bristled at her quick wit. How long had it been? How could he have forgotten that Hermione Granger was a very worthy opponent when it came to verbal sparring?

How he'd hated her then! He hated her now, for what it's worth.

Luckily for him, he riled this witch up more than anyone else back in their school days. Maybe he still had it in him.

"You don't mean to tell me that Hermione Granger, Brightest Witch of Her Age, doesn't know how to do wandless magic? Color me shocked." He said it in a deadpan voice.

A beet-red sort-of blush exploded on her face. "Who are you?" she asked, frustrated.

Draco smirked. He still had it, after all.

For once, she seethed in  silence. Draco wanted to push away the knife, put it at the other side of the kitchen, away from the bushy-haired girl. It wouldn't be beneath her to result to violence. After all, she had hit him back in Third Year.

It couldn't be helped. That's what uncivilized mudbloods do. Or, at least, that was what he told himself, back then.

"I don't care if you think lowly of me," she started, finally getting over her indignation. "But please, I couldn't forgive myself if something happened to Neville." she sounded so vulnerable that he had to look twice to see if Hermione Granger was the one speaking.

"I begged him to see the pack of werewolves in this forest! I was curious, and reckless, and stubborn. He told me he wasn't comfortable with this unplanned excursion, especially when no-one knew where we would be. But because he's generous and a good friend, he said yes to my whims. And look at where it got us! In the middle of nowhere, with you as our captor!"

She ranted without pausing, like she needed to get it off her chest,  even though she looked and sounded near to tears. It didn't matter if she was confiding to a kidnapper, or her long-lost enemy.

"I didn't listen to him. Now, I’m afraid he won't survive because of me." She released a heavy breath, one she looked to be holding for a long time as her eyes melted into pools of brown vulnerability.

"I won't let anything happen to him." He added a sneer to his words. "If he dies, the wizard debt would be nullified."

"What do you want from us, anyway? If you want money”—

"Look at this place!" he raised his arms to the grandeur of his mansion. "I’m richer than you, Weasley, Potter, and Longbottom combined. Rest assured, I don't need your money."

"Then what do you want?" Her voice rose another decibel, frustrated and confused. "Are you a terrorist seeking infamy? Because if Neville dies, you'll definitely get that ."

Ah, infamy and notoriety. He had a taste for things along those lines. He was a Malfoy. His family was notorious for expelling muggles or anything muggle-related in the wizarding world. Both the Black and Malfoy families had a combined notoriety to last a lifetime. 

Infamy, he had that, as well. A long, long time ago. He was the son of Lucius Malfoy, Death Eater extraordinaire and general arsehole. A worshiped Pureblood prince who terrorized muggleborns like her. And did he mention how he almost killed Albus Dumbledore?

Infamy and notoriety came naturally to him.

"Granger, think simply." 

She glred at him. 

"You're a Potioneer, aren't you? A brilliant one, as they say? Then that is what I need from you. Your… expertise.

"I won't brew you an illegal potion." Her steely countenance indicated her lack of resolve to do something far below her principles.

"You have no say in the matter." 

Draco only said that to spite her further. She knew full well that the wizarding debt won't let her bargain

He turned his back, ready to return to his quarters. His head ached from just encountering this woman.

"Let me take his debt." 

Her words shocked him. Suffice to say he didn't expect that from her at all. He knew how self-sacrificing Gryffindors were, but she seemed to take this trait to the extremes.

Draco faced her again. Her chin jutted stubbornly and determination saturated her eyes once more.

"Let me take his debt," she repeated again. This time she didn't waver.

"Are you sure about this?"

"Yes, I am."

What was it about Hermione Granger that he couldn't figure out? He thought he knew her, pegged her, already. Then she would do or say something he most certainly didn't expect.

Draco regarded her warily. Was she tricking him

He supposed he would figure it out later.

"Fine, that can be sorted out later," he conceded with a sigh after finding no trace of trickery in her words.

"But I have my own conditions." She met his eyes, battling silver steel with brown copper.

With his silence, she continued. "Neville will go back home after the debt is transferred. Before that, you must let me take care of him until he recovers. I will brew an insulin potion. For that to happen, I need access to cauldrons and potion ingredients."

"Will  that be all?" Draco thought her conditions reasonable. Longbottom would just be a burden for both of them if he stayed. One Gryffindor in the house was enough. They reminded him of dogs. And Draco was tired of dogs.

She nodded.

"I, too, have some conditions," he said. 

Granger rose her big brown eyes to him. "Longbottom must be obliviated. You don't get to ask me questions. And you certainly can't push me into answering questions I don't want to answer. No tricks either, Granger.

She nodded again.

"You can go anywhere you want, except the West Wing”—

"What's in the West Wing?" she interrupted, already  forgetting his second condition.

"You don't get to ask questions, remember?” he snapped. “My, I don't know what astounds me more - your inability to follow the rules or your Pandora-like curiosity!"

She huffed in both annoyance and defeat, crossing her arms in the process.

She almost looked... cu— Draco quickly erased the thought .

"Fine, what else?" she asked, rolling her eyes.

"The potions lab will be at your disposal when you make the potions." His eyes roved over the mess of kitchen utensils and apparatuses strewn over  the tabletops, as well as the opened cupboards, and then back to her equally messy hair. "It's my personal potions laboratory. So try not to make a mess of it."

She fidgeted, guilty for being called out for her disorderliness.

"I'm frantic, didn't you notice? Neville's got to eat something. Try being diabetic, left in the dungeons for hours, and suffering low blood sugar. See if that doesn't make you hungry." she muttered under her breath.

For someone with a normal hearing range, it would be incoherent. But Draco heard it, plain as day. He didn't comment. In truth, he found her reactions and sentiments almost... f—

Draco left her in the kitchen. It would be better if she didn't come out of there at all. If she could find her way back to her bedroom, that is.

He smirked at the thought of Hermione Granger lost in these labyrinthine halls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revised:1-28-18. Thank you to my alphas and betas [Sarah (sshanholtzer), Paulina (luunascope), and Nikki (Nevernik)]. A big shout out to Dorothy (dorothymalfoy) for the song rec. So what do you think?


	6. Up in Flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keeping on the outside  
> Glimmer in the moonlight  
> Only shadows there dwell we are  
> Creeping on the edge of the dark  
> We feel warmth in the cold corners  
> Eyes in the back of our heads  
> We roll out when the day's over  
> Chasing silhouettes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song lyrics above from the song "Up in Flames" by Ruelle.

_ The night was in its mid-life. Thick, cloud-like fog obscured the paths. Towering trees were the darkest of evergreen. The leaves rustled with the steady whistle of the wind. _

_ Looming above her was the moon, in all its glowing magnificence. It looked so big and so near, as if she could touch it. _

_ Suddenly, the peaceful image ripped itself like a theatre background. _

_ Then… there was the howling. _

_ Hermione ran as fast as she could. Adrenaline pumped through her veins, making her legs feel like automatons running on fuel. She didn't stop. Neville was lost and she had to find him. _

_ "Neville!" she shouted into nothing. _

_ It was all a shifty blur. There were no definite turns in sight. Only the dark green and brown from the trees, and silver from the moonlight. _

_ "Neville, where are you?" she called again. There was nothing but her feet barely grazing the ground for a second. She was running that fast. _

_ Growls found her and she made the mistake of looking back. Four werewolves followed her trail. It was a miracle she could even outrun one of them at all. _

_ Hermione tripped on one of the fallen tree branches, hitting her shin. The pain felt like an ant's nip. The adrenaline in her system made her invincible, if only for a moment. _

_ They caught up to her. One of them clawed the back of her coat. Her back hit a tree trunk squarely as that werewolf spun her coat around. It was about to advance on her, and she screamed as loud her lungs allowed. _

_ She spotted something silver. At first, she thought it was the moonlight. Then it howled. It was a great wolf with fur so white it looked platinum. It bared its teeth at the attacking werewolves, shielding her from their view. _

_ He collided with them head-on with lightning speed. Its eyes were a chilling shade of violet, smart and alert. It looked at Hermione and pointed its head to another direction, away from the feral creatures, before it resumed fighting off the others. _

_ Then she ran _

That was the first time she dreamt of that mysterious wolf. It wasn't the only time, either.

Hermione woke up to the sticky feeling of wet sheets. Her hair clung to her forehead. Cold sweat covered her body, occasionally dripping from her skin.

The pinkish glow of the breaking dawn punctured her bedroom window. She'd forgotten to draw the drapes when she slept. The sight of something as constant as the night stars made sleeping easier. Especially in a foreign place meant as her gilded cage.

So that was what happened that night? It seemed too real to exist only in a dream. Together, she and Neville tried to piece together what had happened that fateful night. But whatever they did, or forced themselves to do, there were still missing pieces in the puzzle.

She took a deep breath and finger-combed her sweat-dampened hair. A grimace passed her face when she had to smooth out the rough tangles. Extracting herself from the sheets, she dangled her feet over the side of the bed. The cool air circulating around the room made her shiver.

Hermione tiptoed down the hall. The morning light was slowly shining upward as the sun rose steadily. Like a sundial for the inhabitants of the house. She used to get lost in these halls, but as time passed it became easier and easier to recognize one place from another and navigate through them.

Time, in this valley, seemed to pass at its own pace, depending on the weather. It rained for three consecutive days once and it felt like months instead of mere days. Then there were times days fast-forwarded into hours. It was as if this part of the valley lived all on its own. Detached and secluded from the outside world.

Silverwood Mansion, as Presto called the house once, had terrific architecture, gorgeous gardens, and a serene atmosphere. It was a pity she saw it under harsh circumstances involving a self-serving, Pureblood elitist.

She reached Neville's quarters, lost in her thoughts. She knocked on the door. It opened slowly after a few moments. Neville poked his head out from behind the dark wood.

"Neville, how are you feeling today?" she asked with a sad smile on her face.

"I'm fine," Neville replied with a yawn. He looked better than he had two weeks ago. Healthier. He had a messy bed-head and his eyes were rimmed with sleep.

"Look, Hermione." He scanned the hallway warily from both sides, and leaned forward. "Can we talk?" he asked, whispering as he did so.

"Of course."

Hermione entered the room. There were empty vials of his insulin potion on the side table. They both sat on the edge of the bed, uncertain how to broach the subject.

"Hermione, do you remember more of what happened that night two weeks ago?"

She wasn't sure how to answer. There was a dream, a very vivid dream. But it begged the question: Was it even true?

"I don't know, Neville. All I remember was the wolf. I remember that I forced you to come here and see the werewolves. I remember regretting it immensely," Hermione admitted ruefully, head bowed down

Neville bumped her slightly. "Cheer up, old girl. I don't blame you," he said, his expression soft. "I blame him." When he mentioned their captor his gentle brown eyes hardened. More than Hermione thought possible for Neville Longbottom.

"Speaking of him, did he ever mention anything to you? Clues? Anything we can link to him?

She thought long and hard. Yet there was nothing. The Master covered his tracks very well. No clues betraying his identity. He kept to himself, took his meals in his quarters, and barely came out. He truly was a recluse. Whenever she rooted around for traces, Presto was always on her back.

The elf was sweet, yet he was also extremely loyal. He would tattle to his Master if he ever saw something odd. And sometimes, she thought he anticipated what her next move would be. He was smart and observant in that way.

"Nothing, Neville, I promise. He did say in his conditions that you must be obliviated. And we both know he'll hog the honors."

"You must do it, Hermione. I don't trust him. If I have to give anyone the permission to tamper with my mind, it might as well be you." Neville looked at her with those puppy-dog eyes and she couldn't resist. It was the least she could do for a friend who sacrificed and suffered a great deal because of her.

"I will, I promise," she smirked. "Just say to that masked fool that if I'm not the one to erase your memories, you'll stay until the Wizard's Debt is paid. He'll like that."

Neville laughed. Not his belly laugh, though. This one was forced and was only meant to enliven their downtrodden spirits.

"I'm really sorry, Neville." Her eyes were glassy, and her voice cracked.

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders while she leaned on his chest. "I'm sorry too, old girl. You took my debt just to free me from this place. What more could I ever ask of you? I won't be of any use finding you if my memories are erased. Leaving you here feels like a betrayal.Just promise me one thing, Hermione." He met her eyes with his pleading ones. "If he ever hurts you, don't hesitate to kick his arse."

She gave him a watery smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I will, don't worry. He messed with the wrong witch."

"Indeed," he agreed.

 

—•—•—•—

 

Three people held hands, forming a circle. One was cloaked and masked. The second was tall and obviously muscular. The last one was short with curly brown hair and a petite form.

"Ready, Granger? Longbottom?" the Master asked.

They replied with curt nods.

"Granger, you say the rite: 'With the life of the earth, the heat of the sun, the light of the moon, I, Hermione Granger, take Neville Longbottom's debt as my own.'"

"You, Longbottom." 

Neville eyed him with revulsion and disgust. 

"You say, 'With the life of the earth, heat of the sun, the light of the moon, I, Neville Longbottom, accept Hermione Granger's offer to transfer my debt to her."

Hermione repeated their captor's words. "With the life of the earth, the heat of the sun, the light of the moon, I, Hermione Granger, take Neville Longbottom's Debt as my own."

The wind whistled a high-pitched tune, followed by blasted breaths. wine-like gossamer webs wrapped around their joined hands.

Neville hesitated saying the rites. "With the life of the earth, heat of the sun, the light of the moon, I, Neville Longbottom, accept Hermione Granger's offer to transfer my Debt to her."

"So mote it be," the masked man said in a deep, concentrated voice.

The magic zipped through their hands and into their skin, seeping into their veins. Hermione felt the bond shackling her to her kidnapper even more.

"Here." the Master shoved something into Neville's hand. "That's a portkey. It will activate in a few minutes."

He was about to raise his wand to cast the memory charm.

"Wait," Hermione interrupted. "I'll do the memory charm." She glared at him, challenging him to deny her request.

"I don't think so, Granger—"

"You can't muck up a memory charm! If you do, the person might go insane. I wouldn't want that to happen to Neville, now would I?" she asked exasperatedly.

He stared at her with caution. "You can't just use my wand. It's not bound to you."

"Just give it here," she prodded.

They both eyed the other with unwavering hostility.

"Don't blame me if you mess up his mind." He handed her the wand, sparking on its end when it touched her fingers.

Hermione took a deep breath. The Master, on the other hand, held his own breath. To her, it was his hawthorn wand, yet it felt and performed like her own vine wand.

She had the passing fancy to point the wand at the Master and inflict some kind of pain on him. But it would be unwise to tamper with ancient magic. She didn't know all that much about how it worked. She might end up dead.

Hermione might be brave, but she was not stupid.

"Obliviate." 

The wand emitted a jet of blue light, penetrating Neville's mind. She erased the memories when they came to the forest, their time in this hidden abode together. She pushed to the forefront of his mind the memories of them doing their research. All the fun times they had.

She cast the charm so precisely, she could practically feel all the sounds, sensations, and images of the past two weeks flush out of his system. Abstract feelings such as pain, anger, fear - all those things in between - were erased as well.

Neville's eyes turned blank and confused. He opened his mouth, like he was about to speak. But before his voice could vibrate through the air, he had disappeared. The portkey in his hands finally activated.

The Master grabbed the wand from her grip harder than necessary. His cloak danced with the wind's fading breath. The shadows played in the background, making him appear formidable as he headed towards Silverwood Mansion in steady strides.

He left her to her own devices, so he could hide again in the confines of his rooms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revised:1-28-18. Thank you to my alphas and betas [Sarah (sshanholtzer), Paulina (luunascope), and Nikki (Nevernik)]. A big shout out to Dorothy (dorothymalfoy) for the song rec. So what do you think?


	7. Lullaby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And save these questions for another day  
> I think I know what you've been asking me  
> I think you know what I've been trying to say

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics above from the song Lullaby by Billy Joel.

"Sinclair! where is he?

Sinclair turned his head.

Harry Potter was behind him, catching his ragged breath and fumbling with his Auror robe buttons.

"In there." Sinclair pointed to the door at the end of the hallway.

Two weeks of false alarms and disappointing midnight floo calls had exhausted Sinclair’s body clock into utter ruin. Sometimes he didn't bother sleeping at all.

This time, it was finally true.

They found Neville Longbottom.

"Rough night, sir?"

"I didn't have a night," Harry chuckled. He took a swig from a styrofoam coffee cup, grimacing. "I came as soon as I heard. Is it really him? Neville? Neville Longbottom?

In an effort to keep some semblance of confidentiality, he lowered his voice. It still bounced through the stark white hospital walls, the empty hallway making for good acoustics.

As it turned out, it was completely unnecessary.

In a few hours, the lobby of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries would surely be swarming with reporters. One way or another, news reports and opinion articles would headline the papers come morning.

Sinclair nodded.

"How was he when they found him? He wasn't hurt, was he?"

"The Healers did an extensive inspection along with other scans to detect any injuries. There was evidence of magically treated wounds, preventing scarring. Some half-healed bruises were found on his body too. Mr. Longbottom's diabetes made the Healers panic over his glucose levels. It was stable when they checked—

"How can that be? They disappeared for two weeks. It would have been impossible for him to maintain his blood sugar levels if" - he paused, thinking hard - "they were kidnapped."

Doubt and confusion flashed alternately in his green eyes.

Sinclair could sympathize.

Neville Longbottom's healthy, if not a little bruised condition, obscured the situation even more. Introducing more questions than answers.

If Neville Longbottom was hurt, why would his captor cure him? Sending him back damaged would have a stronger impact, a stronger message. Why bother freeing him at all?

Terrorism was obviously not the kidnapper's intention. A few Aurors speculated that one of the reasons for their disappearance had to do with a terrorist attack, But that theory was quickly debunked.

In truth, there was a lot of  speculation hovering around this very case. Sinclair was quite thankful for taking one speculation out of the equation.

"There's more." Sinclair cleared his throat, snapping Harry Potter from his thoughts.This time he faltered, debating his next words.

"They found him on the outskirts of the town where he and Ms. Granger were last sighted." Sinclair started, thinking it a fitting introduction. He was never a man for explanations.

He stared at his superior, gauging his reaction.

Harry Potter only furrowed his brows thoughtfully."What else? Any leads? Anything that can help us find Hermione?"

"They found nothing of her magical footprint anywhere."

"Nothing? Are you sure?"

"British Aurors were dispatched to the scene right after they found Mr. Longbottom. If she was ever nearby at the time, the Trace would have alerted us immediately. Apparition Traces were also silent."

Harry Potter stroked his stubbled chin.

"Harry?"

A tall redhead who looked nearly as disheveled as Harry  approached them. Unlike Harry, though, this one wasn't wearing his Auror robes. Instead, he was dressed in the navy blue jacket robes one might wear on a date.

"Ron," Harry  acknowledged. He frowned. "Where the hell have you been? You weren't answering the phone."

Ronald Weasley blushed and cleared his throat. "Er, I left it at home. I got a little sidetracked.

Potter cuffed him on a reddened ear playfully. "Thank Merlin! And here I thought something had happened to you."

"I just got the floo call.Iis it true? Neville's here?" Ron asked. His eyes filled with hope, the same way Harry’s eyes lit up upon hearing Sinclair's confirmation. "Where's Hermione, then?"

"We'll find out soon enough," his friend exhaled.

The door opened just a crack. "Wait!" Sinclair interrupted before the pair had  the chance to open it completely."You should know something” —

"Come on!" The redhead elbowed past Harry . Sinclair would have considered it rude, but Auror Weasley was typically an impatient man, so they said.

His, or rather, their, impatience was understandable, though.

The three wizards entered Neville Longbottom's room., located in a. generic ward at St. Mungo's, featuring sterile equipment, violet-lined white walls, and basic necessities

The flowers on the side table didn't diminish the ever-present antiseptic hospital smell .

A figure covered in blankets was snoring on the bed. Magical monitors beeped and tubes snaked from everywhere, sharing a common root. Neville Longbottom.

The Healers took precautions and placed him under strict observation. The moment he opened his eyes, he might have another episode.  They would come to stabilize him again.

Sinclair saw the damage a wizard could unwittingly impose upon functional, fully-grown wizards. Aurors, to boot. One ended up with a split lip and a broken arm. The other one obtained magical injuries only an unstable wizard could imbue. Like a magical child with his bouts of accidental magic.

Except  Mr. Longbottom was a fully-trained wizard and a strong man, physically speaking.

"Poor Neville," Ron whispered.

Neville stirred in his potion-induced sleep. He  was found lost and confused, wandering by the town's boundaries screaming 'Hermione' in his wake. It took five fully-grown wizards to hold him down while Healers forced Dreamless Sleep down his throat. They didn't want to risk stunning him if he was in any way in poor health.

"What were you going to say earlier, Sinclair?" Harry Potter's eyes never left Neville's sleeping form.

"He..." Sinclair left the sentence hanging, uncertain.

"Harry?"

Neville’s  eyes opened wide, exploring the room, familiarizing himself with the new environment. "Where am I? Where's Hermione?"

There was no petite, curly brunette witch present. Only three men who looked both weary and wary, hands in a defensive position, wands snug in their holsters.

He tried to get up, but the various tubes attached to him kept him from escaping. He began to thrash and alarms started to blare inside the room, elevating his panic.

"Where's Hermione?" he  screamed. Panic and confusion ate his features whole. It was as if he wasn't with her when they were kidnapped. He was clueless to the very information only he should know in the first place. He was supposed to be their lead in finding the muggleborn witch, buthat road looked to be a bleak, dead end.

Weasley was the one nearest to the bed. He crept closer , in a feeble attempt to prevent spooking the frenzied wizard. "Calm down. You're in St. Mungo's” —

"Why?" Longbottom's voice never went down, even for a moment. "I'm fine."

He attempted to pull out the needles and tubes latched to his body, but his efforts were in vain. The apparatus was magically attached to prevent any sort of disconnection caused by his condition.

The redhead tried to take hold of Longbottom's arm, but Neville’s other arm struck Ron’s jaw with force.

Weasley let out a curse of pain. He didn't anticipate such a violent reaction from a gentle friend.

Auror Potter stared at the scene, which was slowly getting out of hand as it unfolded.

"Where's Hermione?" Neville repeated.

Recovered from the sudden attack, Weasley grabbed Longbottom's muscular arms, and pinned them to the ballistic man's side, teeth gritted while doing so.

"We don't know," Weasley answered.

The metal bed frame rattled with Ron and Neville's intense grappling.

"Can't we stun him?" Ron grunted behind his shoulder.

"What’s wrong with him, Sinclair?" Potter hissed. When Sinclair didn't answer immediately, he yelled, his green eyes flashing furiously. "Damn it! Answer me!"

"She was just standing there, then she was gone!" Longbottom howled through Weasley's shoulder. "I don't remember anything, Harry."

"What?" Potter asked, but understanding already dawned on his face. Horror did, too.

They were dealing with a man, missing for almost two weeks, and thrust into the slow throes of memory recovery.

"Tell me everything. No more omissions, Sinclair. I warn you."

Harry Potter's eyes swiveled sharply to him, not straying once until his demands were answered. Sweat gathered at Sincl temples. The sound of Ron's grunts and string of curses, mingled with Neville's incoherent babbling in the background, rattled him.

The alarms weren't helping , and neither were the Healers that were supposed to be enforcing a strict watch on the patient.

Sinclair was about to answer when Harry Potter turned sharply to the men still wrestling on the bed.

"Ron, move away from him," Potter commanded.

Ron obeyed and disentangled himself from Neville. He caught his breath once they parted.

"Imperio!" Harry pointed his wand at Neville, then a jet of yellow-green light hit Neville squarely in the chest.

"Holy shit, Harry." Weasley muttered under his breath.

Sinclair's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. Aurors, entrusted with the sole task of protecting the wizarding world, might  resolve to using Unforgivables once or twice in their career, but those times are limited to war and selected desperate situations only.

This was a desperate situation, but not the kind of desperate situation the Wizengamot would easily pardon the use of Unforgivables for

He’d never seen Harry Potter in action before. What he was witnessing felt like a stretch - more than a raid, or even the Second Wizarding War itself, could ever show.

Neville convulsed for a few seconds, resisting the curse, then eventually surrendered. A mask of serenity replaced his tense features. He stared blankly with glassy eyes at the stark white ceiling.

"Neville, calm down. Focus. I want you to tell us everything you remember."

No trace of hesitation or remorse showed on Harry’s face . He only had an even voice and an unreadable poker face.

"We had breakfast at the Golden Gardenia Inn. It's lovely, owned by an equally lovely English woman. The food was delicious, best bacon we tasted for miles." Neville smiled, a cross between creepy and dreamy.

Sinclair and Weasley shared a look.

"Then what happened, Neville?

"She wanted to go for a ride, to celebrate. We finished our research early."

"Where did you go? Where's Hermione? What happened to the both of you?" The questions barrelled out of Harry’s mouth like a speeding train and its carriages

"I don't know."

It was clear there was nothing they could squeeze from an imperiused, obliviated wizard. His reservoir of limited memory had run dry

"Sleep, Neville. Sleep until you feel better."

Neville Longbottom's torso dipped back, his eyes drifted shut, and his breaths deepened as he succumbed to another involuntary sleep. With a twist of Harry's wand, he was released from the curse's clutches.

"Fuck. I shouldn't have done that." Potter swept back his messy fringe away from his face. He ruffled it again.

"What now? How are we going to find ‘Mione?"

"I don't know, Ron.

Suddenly Sinclair’s arm was being pulled. Ron dragged him roughly outside the room.

"Tell us everything, Sinclair. Every detail." Harry Potter glared daggers at him.

"The Memory Retrieval Squad tried everything. The memory charm placed on him can’t be reversed by anyone but the spell caster . Whoever did this has a talent for advanced memory charms. There were no traces of implanted memories, either."

Potter nodded gravely, seeing Sinclair's look of firm sincerity.

"Stay here," he instructed. "Oh, and Sinclair, whether you keep what happened earlier a secret or not, it's fine. We'll talk later."

Sinclair nodded.

"Ron, a word."

Both men shared a fleeting but meaningful look before they traveled farther down the hall. 

The Healers arrived not long after Harry and Ron left. They thought they were to calm a horribly disoriented wizard.  _ Too late for that _ , Sinclair thought. So they fussed over Longbottom instead, checking nonexistent loose tubes.

Sinclair didn't know what prompted him to turn left in that particular corridor. It was drafty and looked to be deserted. Maybe it was a migraine coming on.

He heard hushed male voices. It was Aurors Potter and Weasley.

"It can't be! Why the bloody hell would Hermione do that?"

"No, listen, Ron. It's hard to believe for me, too. But think about this: who else could have performed a memory charm that complex? Who was the person Kingsley Shacklebolt had to take to Australia to reverse her own memory charm when MRS couldn't do it themselves? Who?"

"Hermione. Blimey!"

"It doesn't add up."

"But what's her motive? If she's in any danger, why would she remove his memories? If he escaped and she couldn't, she knew he could lead us to wherever she is."

"That's one way to look at it."

"Don't give me that look."

"What look?"

"That look, Harry! Your suspicious look. You don't think she's somehow part of this, right? Because that's crazy! We both know Hermione wouldn't hurt Neville on purpose."

"No! Of course not. But what if she was forced?"

"That's who we need to find and let rot in Azkaban! Not Hermione."

"Calm down, Ron. You'll hurt yourself. What are you doing?"

"This bug. Ugh! It keeps landing on my shoulder."

"What kind of bug, Ron?"

"A beetle."

Suddenly they were silent.

"Skeeter!

Sounds of frantic slapping and the eventual shattering of broken glass could be heard.

"Fuck."

"We're fucked."

 

—•—•—•—

 

Hermione was bored.

She missed her work. She even missed the insignificant paperwork probably stacked on her desk. The thought of unfinished business lying around her office bothered her.

She missed the city and the view from her apartment window. This place was too provincial for her tastes. It may be beautiful, but it was more suited to  stuffy old men lost to the pace of time.

She flipped the pages of the book she was reading. It was entitled "A Game of Warlocks". It was a wizarding fantasy novel set in medieval times when magic folk still used elemental magic and wielded the magic of the earth.

She committed to memory all the wrong things in this book And wrote,  in her mind, what she thought would have made it all better.The plot and characters were superb, but the pairings were ill-thought . Tanya should have ended up with Lord Allory. That slap she gave him should have at least shook some sense into one of them. Then that near kiss at The Forbidden Glen! (It may not be intended as a near-kiss moment but she considered it that way.)

Ugh! She may or may not have screamed 'Just kiss already!' at the inanimate book like a madwoman.

Look t what isolation had reduced her to!

It reminded her of one of her favorite muggle book series. "A Song of Ice and Fire". They both had dragons and complex characters.

Hermione adored dragons. There was something mystical and elegant about them.

Tanya and Lord Allory were calling each other witty names in front of the court, when…

There was a faint scraping sound. Then something else, too. She couldn't register the specific sound.

Her bedroom door clicked shut.

The sounds came from the end of the hall. The one leading to the West Wing. She should really turn back and read her book. But curiosity was pulling her to the root of the strange sounds.

The West Wing was the darkest part of the mansion. Oddly enough, even at the peak of day, all the windows were shut or curtained by heavy velvet. It revelled in the darkness. Only an albino or a vampire could live in that hall.

There it was again, the scraping. It got louder the nearer she crept forward. Something...howled

It didn't sound right. An undercurrent of a human scream loud enough for her to hear preceded it. Or perhaps it was the high-pitched whistle of the wind? Or was this boredom that was finally taking a toll on her over imaginative mind

Maybe she was already mad.

One of the largest windows on the landing, where the East Wing ends and the West Wing begins, was open. A gust of wind blew her hair.

She stood in between the Gulf of Alaska*. The light division of the East and the West was tangible. There were parts of her still exposed to the golden light of the setting sun, while some parts were saturated by the shadows.

A sudden crash echoed only a few doors away. Hermione gasped, hand on her heart to ease the alarming rate. IT was as if a heavy object had been flung across the room.

She walked forward a little more. Her fleece night slippers slid  soundlessly against the floor.

"Missy Hermione?"

Hermione jumped. Her hand, once again, clutched her chest. "Oh, Presto! You scared me."

"Missy Hermione should not be in West Wing! Master commands it. Miss must go."

"But..." she drifted, eyes trained at the unseen door where sounds of unimaginable imagery seemed to originate. "I heard noises over there."

The elf took her hands and practically hauled her to the opposite direction. Surprising, for its small stature.

"Tht's the Master's wing. Presto think Missy Hermione want to stroll in the gardens."

"What are those strange noises, Presto?"

"The Master is not feeling well, Missy Hermione."

"What?

"Missy Hermione, sunset is beautiful in gardens today. Presto show you around!"

Seeing no victory in this exchange, Hermione sighed and let the elf lead her back to the light.

Hermione turned her head, stealing another glimpse. What kind of... thing makes those kind of odd noises? It was like the sound of a struggling, tortured animal.

Amidst the maze of sculpted bushes, beautiful flowers, and fluttering butterflies Hermione’s head was still in the West Wing hallway. Presto's proud retelling of how he shapes the bushes was lost to her.

She could only look at the closed  windows of the wing and wonder what lay inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to update here in Ao3 again. For the readers who only read here or prefers to read here, I'm really sorry for withholding the chapter (or other chapters). Stay tuned for more, quick updates. Thank you to my alphas and betas [Sarah (sshanholtzer), Paulina (luunascope), and Nikki (Nevernik)]. A big shout out to Dorothy (dorothymalfoy) for the song rec. So what do you think?


	8. Centuries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bruises on your thighs like my fingerprints  
> and this is supposed to match  
> the darkness you felt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics above from the song "Centuries" by Fall Out Boy.

Draco clenched his fists on the bunched-up sheets of his bed.

Nicolas pitied Narcissa's son as the boy writhed on his bed, holding back the urge to scream and pull out his hair.

"She's not safe here, Draco." Nicolas Vasilescu's Romanian drawl didn't sound bored and lazy at all. The anxiousness of it was alarming.

"Don't you think I know that?" The boy thrashed around, his torso lifting from the bed. He glared at Nicolas with violet-rimmed irises. "Fuck, this hurts like h-hell," he growled through gritted teeth.

"It will pass. Now, how did she end up here, Draco?"

"Granger owes me her life. That bitch is more fucking difficult than this." He dragged his syllables, ending his muttering with labored gasps.

Nicolas kept quiet while the boy's crass language filled the room. If ranting and raving will help him cope with his pain, let it be.

"What do you plan to do with her? You don't think she’ll rid you of  _ this _ , do you?" Nicolas shook his head. "It's in your blood. It won't disappear."

He laid out a dropper on the side table. A vial of clear liquid sat beside it.

"Not this!" Draco screamed,his voice cracking. "They said she can c-cure” —

Another spasm wracked his body. Each fingernail transformed into hooked claws. The bedding tore with an audible rip. Draco had enough sense to unclench the sheets before ruining the mattress. His sentence was left hanging as a raw scream escaped his throat.

Nicolas kept a reasonable distance between himself and the bed.

Metamorphosis has its fair share of pain. But for Draco, the extent of his change had the intensity that could send someone into a blind rampage. This was unfortunate for the ones on the receiving end of that rampage.

He worried about the girl, only a few walls away.

Could she hear Draco's screams of anguish? Because these thick walls could only conceal so much.

Magic, too.

 

—•—•—•—

 

It always started with whispers drifting from an unnavigable darkness.

Hushed, languid mutterings of her name. "Hermione... Hermione... Hermione..."

She would wander. Or float. Whatever verb fit the description of moving through this strange darkness she encountered almost every night.

Hermione used to panic during this intermission,but it turned out only to be sleep. Dreams come after. She let the voice lead her to dreamscape.

The dreamscape, as she came to call it, wasn’t  as dense and dark as sleep was. It could be anything, free to assume any form or shape. Unfortunately, it wasn't up to her what shape her dreams would take .

It always depended on someone else.

As for that someone else, she didn't know who it was.

Light suddenly imploded into the darkness. She delved deeper into the dream with a jolt. To the point of no return, a place where waking up was not an option.

Her feet touched soft earth. The moonlight rippled the air much like sunlight choreographed the microscopic dust to dance. Dark colors of forest green and midnight waters painted the dreamscape tonight. A few steps forward, just behind the twisting expanse of lush trees, a cliff overlooked a still sea.

She could only look and feel the serenity it imposed. From nothing there came something. This once scared and disconcerted her - this uncontrollable landfall of possibilities. Then she learned to trust the invisible being maneuvering her dreams. For they were only dreams, anyway.

A rustle from behind made her spin around in surprise. A white wolf bounded towards her. When it stopped, it regarded her haughtily with its striking violet eyes. Hermione smiled as she crouched eye-level to the genteel creature.

"How are you, boy?" Hermione asked in the cutesy voice people use for dogs and babies.

The wolf's snowy white head recoiled from Hermione's touch, indignant.

She chuckled, and it growled. "No, sir. I'm sorry, but you're no fun, you." 

It sniffed her hand when she apologized and normalized her voice. She swore its eyes narrowed when it heard her jab.

Hermione never met an animal that took itself too seriously before. It had an endearing kind of sillyness.It leapt gracefully from its position to the nearby path, turning his head in her direction, expecting her to follow. So she did. It led her to the peak of the cliff, to the very edge.

Viewing the sea from atop a precarious cliff made it feel closer. Hermione wondered what jumping from the cliff and hitting the water would feel like.

"Why so suicidal, Hermione?" His voice was enigmatic. The rich quality, its depth, pulled her in. Like drinking hot cocoa during a cold stormy day.

"I was just thinking."

"You always think."

"Where am I?" she asked.

"Closer than you think."

"Where are you?"

"Closer than you think." Warm breath tickled her left ear ever so softly.

She wanted to reach out to him, just graze its skin. The desire to capture this elusive character consumed her, but she didn't. Her arms were stiff at her sides."You won't tell me, will you?" 

She felt  his lips near her pulse point. If he only dared to plant them on that spot, he could have felt the blood rushing in her veins. In the stillness, one could even hear her heart thump murderously, as if to stab its way out of her chest. Or was that just her, already deaf to the world with the exception of his voice and her heart?

"Soon." A promise.

Calloused hands trailed up her arms making her shiver. When soft lips pressed themselves to hers, patient and impatient, requesting and demanding, she relented. She stood frozen and moved at the same time. Afraid the moment would end.

The silence and darkness didn’t equate to emptiness. It punctuated every movement, every heightened sensation.

He played with the darkness to hide himself. He always did. The natural light sketched a faint picture of smooth, sculpted cheeks. Conveniently, those were the only features she could see.

Come closer.

Every time she tried to glimpse  his face, she woke up. One night she saw firm, yet sensual, lips. A straight, aristocratic nose in the other. She held another segment of a jigsaw puzzle. The imaginary 'click' of it as it fit into place satisfied her more than it should.

Her fingers were crossed so tight that unknotting them would have been impossible.

_ Don't wake up. _

_ Don't. Wake. Up. _

"Soon," he whispered for the nth time.

_ And when would "soon" be? _

The scenery shattered into a million fractals of light, then she woke up. Prematurely. Again.

Like they said: "Be careful what you wish for." Hermione wasn't the kind to listen to generalized advice. But maybe "they" were wiser than she gave them credit for. Because when he did appear, his face jarring in lamp light, she wasn’t prepared at all.

 

—•—•—•—

 

The windows slammed shut like the dream she tried so hard to keep. Brown eyes opened wide to the ceiling she abhorred waking up to every day.

A automatic hand smoothed away the curls clinging to her sweat-dampened forehead. The other wound its way under her pillow. She felt the reassuring piece of metal. A butter knife with its intricately carved handle appeared as she gingerly took it out. Pathetic as it sounds, it was necessary for her survival. It won’t  get her out of here, not by a long shot, but it helped balance her sanity. The only piece of control she could keep.

A witch without a wand she may be, but a woman without defense she was not.

Presto had his flaws, she discovered. He was too fussy and too subservient. As if that wasn't much of a surprise. He served her breakfast in bed once. She demanded lots of things, instructed him to get them without magic. Commands he was too happy to oblige. When he was gone, she stole the knife. She couldn't risk a steak knife, though. That elf was too smart for his own good, sometimes. Lying to the little bugger was harder than she initially thought.

Hermione stilled. The clock's hands pointed to a quarter to midnight.

The sounds were gone. She craned her ear and listened harder. They were really gone.

A tiny thought took precedence over her thoughts in an instant. She crept out of her bedroom inch by inch.

_ What if… _

It made her stop. She couldn’t . Could she?

The edge of the East Wing was so close. Of course, the Wing beyond that was getting closer, too.

It was silly of her, running around with a butter knife in hand. Maybe she really was on the brink of insanity. She really shouldn't be doing this. The Master was all too insisting of his rules.

_ Why do I care what he thinks? I refuse to make him my boss. _ There was a stubborn look in her eye.  _ No, he's definitely not the boss of me. _

She turned her head in the opposite direction. There was not a trace of doubt or fear strong enough to pull her back to the safety of her room. No meddling house elves either, serving as a voice of reason.

The shadows engulfed her whole, one step after the other.

Hermione meandered through the West Wing in autopilot mode. Like deliberately walking in a haze.

It was deathly quiet. Odd. Ever since last week, every other night, the same strange sounds - of muffled collisions and tortured howls - ghosted through the walls. Tonight wasn't one of those nights.

Very odd, indeed.

A magnificent set of double doors beckoned to her at the end of the West Wing. When she reached it, a multitude of emotions overcame her. Not to mention the same questions that thundered through her mind. Or the scenarios flashing by so fast she couldn't keep track of all of them.

She turned the doorknob as she released her last unabated breath. The heavy double doors swung inward slowly. They didn't creak, but the whisper of a cold breeze went through her. Subtle as it was, it still made her shiver and curl her toes.

The frantic little voice in her head that once yelled 'Get out of there!' was muted. It was replaced by yet another whisper: 'Find him.'

Crazy. Wandering aimlessly, following an erratic sense of direction. Insane. Who 'him' was, she still didn't know. Yet she moved forward instinctively.

Hermione padded forward, licking her dry lips.

There wasn't much light to find her way around. How she would kill for a wand's  _ lumos _ ! How she would kill for her wand! Or any wand. Her grip on the unassuming silverware tightened.

_ Well, for now, this would just have to do. _

A light hovered at what looked like the end of the proverbial tunnel. Only by only drawing closer did she realize that her location could not be classified as a tunnel, nor was she at the end of it - definitely far from the end - but she stood inside a cavernous living space  thrice the size of her room. And her room was large.

The hovering light was a ball of gas suspended in the air, shining like the sun. Exactly like the sun. A mini star in one's own house. Hermione stared in awe. She flinched when it ghosted around her, yet nothing drastic happened. It only left a trail of warmth.

As it floated back to its position, she became enlightened. And what a dark enlightenment it had been!

Hermione was not prepared at all.

It illuminated a sight she would have once killed for to behold. It wouldn't have made much of a difference - she would certainly commit murder.

The star overlooked a figure slumbering ever so peacefully. Like an angel. 

Yeah right, more like an Angel of Death. 

His features looked sharp and jarring in contrast to the curved circumference of the light. The familiar sensual mouth. The familiar sculpted cheekbones and jaw. The familiar protruding chin. The familiar deep-set eyes. Familiar. Too familiar. All too familiar.

Once upon a dream.

No.

He stirred with a soft sigh.

_ No. _

On his bedside table, a familiar mask sat maliciously, mocking her.

NO.

The butter knife clattered to the crisp, wood floors.

His eyes opened, revealing those familiar gray eyes. Haunting, contemptuous, enigmatic.

It was none other than Draco Malfoy.

Hermione gasped. Just then, more brilliant balls of gas flared around the room.

 

—•—•—•—

 

If this was a dream, it would be a nightmare. Draco knew the transformations triggered brain activity close to dreaming. But this? This was plain brutality.

Funny, really.

Hermione Granger, mouth hanging and eyes popping out, stunned, still in his bedroom. What a creative imagination he had! She even looked like overcooked jello, barely holding her footing.

Yeah, right.

"You." It came out as a jagged breath from her lips. 

"You," she repeated.

_ I get your point. _

"You!"

"Hello, Granger."

Draco's instinct propelled him to subtly feel around his bed for his wand. In the periphery of his vision, he watched  her feet feel for something on the floor. The harsh glint of silver flashed. A knife.

Where was his wand?

Before he knew it, he stood, inching as far away from the brunette as possible. A king-sized bed was the only barrier between them. There they were - face to face, eye to eye, for the first time in five years. He could  have taken a good, long look at his old school rival, perhaps give a sarcastic commentary on her inappropriate attire or her suspicious motives for singling him out in the middle of the night. But he only registered the murderous expression on her face. He never saw her this livid before, with her eyes and nose flared like bulls seeing red.

"You slimy, good for nothing, lying piece of scum." Granger dragged out the words begrudgingly through tight lips.

"You're getting rusty with your insults, Granger."

He inwardly cursed Nicolas . Draco blamed the good doctor and his stupid precautions for taking away his wand. What if he needed his wand for an emergency? This was the emergency!

Too late.

Hermione Granger screeched a bloodcurdling battle cry. She charged so fast, his inhuman instinct was his only salvation.

  
  


—•—•—•—

 

It couldn't be. But life proved all too kind to agree with her.

Draco Malfoy, in the flesh, bed head still intact, was lying in her captors' quarters. Information linked in her mind. She could hear the electricity zapping, feel her brain overheating. Or was that the fiery anger bubbling inside her?

Her legs felt like quicksilver when she threw herself at him.

In one swift, nanosecond of a leap she landed on the bed on her hands and knees to reach him, to wrap her hands around that albino neck. The bed springs contracted underneath.

Draco finally woke up, but realized it wasn't all a dream. A furious Gryffindor really was chasing him. Her screech grated at his ears.

"Whoa, Granger. Calm down."

"Calm down?" Hermione seethed. What arrogance! He had the gall to smirk at her? Just wait; she'll wipe that stupid smirk off his face. With her foot. Or her fist. "I'll show you calm!"

Hermione almost caught him, but he slipped from her vengeful fingers. She let out a frustrated scream. "Why?"

"A means to justify a good end. Now, untwist your knickers."

"A good end?" Disbelief punctuated her every word. "What good did kidnapping us do to anyone?"

"As of now" - Malfoy swept a heap of books off its shelf with one strong arm. "None at all."

Electricity crackled around Hermione as she stomped after him. A determined chocolate glare focused on the fallen books. They floated amidst the tension-thickened atmosphere. With a snappy wave of her arms, the hardbound tomes zoomed in the blond's direction from a sharp, angry angle.

She cursed again when they barely touched an inch of that pallid git’s body.

Malfoy smirked."Tsk, tsk, Granger. You don't play fair." He smoothed his hair. "But I can deal with that."

 

—•—•—•—

 

Despite the hurtling articles of fiction and raining sheafs of loose pages, he dodged her attack without breaking a sweat. Draco moved like an impossible blurr shifting from one place to another.

The grandfather clock toppled before him, nearly getting him by an inch. He stole a look from behind and saw Granger, with a perpetual stink eye, targeting him.

Hermione Granger hadn’t changed, after all these years. She was the same vindictive know-it-all who can't take a bloody joke. Even if the joke itself was a matter of life and death. The same powerful, brilliant witch who'd result to wandless magic fueled by her anger alone.

"I'm going to ask again. Why?" Blazing eyes and gritted teeth accompanied her twitching fist.

"I don't have the liberties to divulge any information. I invoke my right against self incrimination." 

The brunette obviously didn't take a shining to his cheeky statement, what with that infernal glare.

"Your rights mean nothing in this valley," he heard her whisper malevolently, echoing his earlier  words.

They’d already circled the room. Yet it felt like time stretched  for one decade mile a minute.

Draco recognized his mistake in changing positions with the muggleborn. Above the fireplace mantle lay an impressive collection of fatally-sharpened antique knives.

" _ Accio _ kni” —

His summoning spell failed as she’d already grabbed some and started throwing them with expert precision at him.

"Where the hell did you learn that?" he yelped. A knife grazed his ear just a scratch.

"You think I only have my books?" Granger laughed wryly. "Think again! My father never taught me helplessness." She then huffed in frustration when he ducked her well-aimed throw.

Her makeshift ammunition eventually ran out. They were either deeply impaled in places or lost amidst the chaos of broken debris.

She grabbed a nearby floor-stand candelabra. With a cry deep from her throat, she thrust it at the blond with all her might, bumping and bruising her shins on the innumerable upturned and scattered pieces of furniture. Hermione didn't care at all.

At the last second , before she could inflict any damage, he turned sharply. He grabbed the other end, as if they were playing tug of war. And he was winning.

Hermione saw a slash to his rib cage when he was on the brink of wrenching her weapon away. Her leg connected with that vulnerable rib. Too bad she didn't hear it crack. Her satisfaction came instead in the form of his guttural groan as the candelabra clanged to the ground. She planted a good sock to his jaw too, but only because she couldn't reach his nose.

"I hate you, Draco Malfoy! I hate what you did to Neville, and I hate what you did to me!"

 

—•—•—•—

 

Granger was a hurricane. It took him a few seconds to block her punches.

"You're lucky it's below me to hit women! But you are just begging to become an exception," he hissed.

"Oh, I feel so special." She rolled her eyes.

Pain laced his side as she delivered another side kick to his body. She may only be petite in stature, not more than five foot four, but damn, she knew her technique.

Draco growled before sweeping her legs out from under her. In retaliation, she struck his ankles, knocking him off balance. He pinned her to the floor before she could. Her eyes grew wide again.

"I don't want to hurt you! Stop this now before you regret it!" Draco threatened, to which she just stared venomously at him in response.

It was admirable, and incredibly stupid - her Gryffindor stubbornness and pride. Granger sported bruised arms and skinned knees with a matching bloody lip. She should just give up, for once. He heard her abnormal heart rate pulsing beneath that delicate neck for the second time since she came here. She looked exhausted.

"I'm going to be generous. I'll let you out of here unscathed." He stood up, brushing himself off. 

He could feel Hermione’s dagger eyes sinking down his back. "Don't ever come back here again. You've been warned."

Draco headed for the nightstand to get his emergency wand. When he turned around, however, she was gone.

A look of panic formed on his face before she screamed in his ear: "I sure as hell don't play fair too, Malfoy!"

Strong arms and legs restricted his movements as they enclosed him in a twisted piggy-back ride. "Constant vigilance, didn't you know that?"

The surprise that took him also switched on an instinct he never wanted to exploit. His predatory one. The heady pull of danger and competition cranked those underused gears and oiled them up. All that build-up... he was bound to break. He felt his animalistic strength unfurl.

"I know," he answered. "But I'm better than you at not playing fair." 

Without warning, he slammed his back against the nearest wall.

Adrenaline softened her pain, but only just.

Hermione stared at the cracked wall and the strands of her hair tangled with broken concrete. She was struck dumb with his sheer brutality.

Her awareness grew with every passing minute they fought. Awareness of the pain and everything all around her.

Malfoy.- a long-lost school rival who dropped from the face of the British wizarding community after his trial - was right in front of her. She gasped at the sight he presented.

"I warned you, don't push me," Draco warned. 

His eyes were different. They were once a cool, indifferent gray. Now they’d turned into feral amber. Amber? His pupils minimized to an insignificant dot.

This wasn't good.

Thunder cracked outside. The only reminder of the world that existed around them.

It all happened so fast.

She only remembered him hustling to reach the heavy drapes in panic. If this was any other storm, she would have found his need to shut the drapes silly, . But it wasn’t an ordinary storm, nor an ordinary night. Hermione knew that much.

She realized there was broken glass on the floor beneath every window. Magic is unpredictable, but only during extreme bouts of emotions.

But it was too late. Before he could grasp the drapes, a howl of wind blew strong enough to make them flap and billow. A climactic gust lifted them up, and natural light flashed like a dramatic spotlight.

"Malfoy," Hermione squeaked. "Are you ok?"

Draco stared overhead at the moon in all its full, luminescent glory. In a flash, he was writhing about. Shifting. Long, elegant fingers became deadly claws. His sculpted face elongating into a snout. His bones and muscles looked and sounded, even felt like they were breaking, then reforming. His tall and lithe body expanded  in width and even more in height until he was as tall as the magnificent four-poster bed in the room. White fur gleamed in the moonlight.

Hermione's heart pounded in her ears.

It roared at her, its canine teeth bared.

"Werewolf!"

She ran, never looking back. Her curtain of wild curls flew behind her.

This was how Hermione Granger came to be... the girl who cried werewolf.

The double doors she shut blasted into tiny chunks of wood like it got hit by a Confringo. Only this time, a looming werewolf smashed right through them.

Her legs took her through the twisting hallways, running blindly. Her body was sore all over, and her vision grew blurry.

She collided with a chest, whose owner she didn't know. "Please," she begged to unknown the blond man dressed in black. "There's a werewolf…” She weakly turned her head to the darkened hall behind her.

The man moved his lips like he was speaking to her, but she couldn't hear a sound. Color frayed at the edges.

A howl…

A violet wand glowing…

A white werewolf lying on the ground…

Then all went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another update. I'm catching up with all the chapters here. Thanks to my alphas and betas (same people).


	9. Part II : The Beautiful In-Between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six months ago

"Epilepsy and insanity do not follow the phases of the moon."

 

_ -Matthew 4: 24; 17:5 _

 

"One must embrace the possibility of change. The change of time, the change of principles, and the change of heart. In this way, a recluse truly lets go of heavy baggage. Now this results in two possible routes; first is the conversion of a past hate into a new love. Second is the ultimate disconnection of two hate-bound persons."

 

_ \- Draco Malfoy "A Mechanical Handbook for Reclusive Enemies: How to Deal With Past Hates" (signed first edition) _

 

I know they'll be coming to find me soon

But I fear I'm getting used to

Being held by you

 

_ -One Direction, "Stockholm Syndrome" _

 

—•—•—•—

 

_ "Let me go, Draco!" Hermione wriggled away from his embrace. Werewolf or not, she could push him away if she wanted to. So why wasn't she fighting him harder? _

_ Draco heard her heart beating, erratic and unstable. Who was it beating for? _

_ He wondered made his own heart stutter in his rib cage. It wasn’t steady nor reassuring, because it ached. It pitted itself deeper, forcing the strange sensation to linger. Like an aftershock wreaking havoc long after the earthquake had passed. It shook him and grounded him at the same time. _

_ "Not today, Hermione Granger,” he whispered in her ear. “Someday, maybe," He wasn’t one to make promises he doesn't intend to keep. "But not today," he repeated. _

_ His words affected Hermione more than she thought. What is that supposed to mean? _

_ Hate isn’t the opposite of love. Indifference is. _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little teaser for the second part of this fic...


	10. Animal Instinct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the thing that gets to me  
> Is you'll never really see  
> And the thing that freaks me out  
> Is I'll always be in doubt
> 
> The animal, the animal, the animal instinct in me  
> It's the animal, the animal, the animal instinct in me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song lyrics above from the song "Animal Instinct" by The Cranberries

“What a vile of piece of shit you are.” The bathroom mirror reflected Draco’s vehement face. “You’re the shit stuck under the shoe of the lowest shit in the world!”    
  
_ Crack _ !   
  
Blood caked the glass spider web his fist etched into the mirror. As he looked into it again, his tired and bruised face fractured.    
  
_ Crack!  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Crack!  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Tinkle. _ _   
_   
His white fist rammed again and again into the mirror, anger and self-loathing feeding his urge to destroy. Until his reflection was unrecognizable. Until only blood and shattered pieces of glass remained.   
  
Intense pain shot up his arm once the adrenaline trickled away. He relished in the pain of it, welcomed it with open arms.    
  
It served him right.    
  
Draco allowed himself to be reduced to an uncontrollable animal. He nearly killed Hermione Granger; nearly killed an innocent woman.   
  
She didn’t deserve to bear the brunt of his brute strength. Even if she was the most impossible, coltishly stubborn human being on the planet.   
  
The bathroom suite door creaked open. “The healer requested to see master -“    
  
“Master is bleeding!” Presto’s already wide eyes popped at the sight of his bloody fist. The elf hopped about in the cold bathroom suite. He grabbed a towel from one of the fancy racks, hurrying to Draco’s aid.    
  
Presto didn’t meet his eyes when Draco  let the elf clean his wounds.    
Draco flinched at the softest scrapes of the towel. The wounds were deeper than he realized.    
  
The elf cowered at his flinches, as if he would lash out at the creature without preamble. Presto was acting like Dobby whenever he used to obey his father’s bidding.    
  
He was afraid of Draco.    
  
Draco laughed bitterly, wanting to tear his hair from his head. Presto shot him a curious look, but dropped it quickly when Draco  noticed.    
  
This jaunty elf has  never been afraid of Draco since the day he was presented to serve the Malfoy family. Was this the overeager elf that hugged his knee for a week when Draco didn’t have anything for it to do? Was this the elf that chose to serve him, despite his terrifying condition?    
  
No, this was the elf that realized he was serving a living, breathing, raging, monster.    
  
“How is Granger, Presto?”   
  
“The lady is resting, Master. Healer wants to speak with you.”   
  
“Tell old Nicolas I’ll be right down.” 

  
  
—•—•—•—

  
  
“Are you listening to me, Draco?” 

  
The good doctor’s voice lulled him into the background. Draco could only stare at Granger’s prostrate form, bandaged and bruised. He wanted to hurl the contents of his empty stomach.    
  
“Sorry, what?”   
  
“I said, Miss Granger is finally stable. I gave her a calming drought to help her sleep and rest her body into a quick recovery. You’re lucky she wasn’t severely injured.”    
  
“Thank you. I appreciate it.” Draco was still focused on the unconscious brunette. Did her lashes flutter? He swore they did.    
  
“No, you’re not listening to me, Draco!” The blond, middle-aged man firmly gripped Draco’s  shoulders. “What you did was reckless and dangerous! You’re strength is unpredictable -“    
  
“You don’t think I know that?” His voice rose, fists balling. Wounded hand forgotten, he winced at the sudden stretch of skin.    
  
“Temper, Draco. I won’t ask how that happened.” Nicolas looked down at Draco’s  fist, which was starting to trickle blood onto the carpet. “I should dress that before it gets infected.”    
  
Antiseptics and alcohol stung the cuts. Nicolas only raised his eyebrows when extracting the small fragments of glass still embedded in the lacerated skin, then shook his head at Draco’s repressed expression at every squeeze of the tweezer.    
  
“What are your plans now?”

  
Gray eyes settled above the headboard.   
  
“Draco?” Nicolas repeated.    
  
“It has to work.” He must have looked like a madman mumbling to himself. It was all Draco thought about ever since he heard Hermione Granger scream in the woods. “It has to.”   
  
“If you think she can cure -“    
  
“It has to work!” Violet and amber warred for dominance in his eyes; for a second the Malfoy gray vanished.    
  
“Calm down.” Nicolas backed away slowly, voice soothing and placating. A firm but hypnotic command.   
  
“I’m not one of your bloody dragons.”    
  
“Then don’t act like  _ one of my bloody dragons _ ,” Nicolas retorted.    
  
It was true. And Nicolas had handled a lot of angry, crazy-ass dragons. The long, white scar marring his profile looked jarring in the morning light. A testament of such a dangerous profession. Well, being Draco’s personal healer was another dangerous, part-time job.    
  
Draco slumped his shoulders and sighed. “I’m sorry, you’re right.”    
  
Dear Merlin, he was such a mess.    
  
“Hermione Granger already knows your condition, Draco. If her reaction last night is any indication, you can’t possibly expect full cooperation from her after everything that happened. She’s better off back in England, and you’re better off here.”   
  
“She knows one of my conditions.”

  
Nicolas snorted, disbelieving.

  
Draco dismissed the healer’s cynical sentiments with a mental shake of his head. Logic dictated that he relinquish this idiotic endeavor. But for once, he would not follow his rational mind.    
  
No, this was the direction of none other than his gut. His instincts - his animal instincts. If those were any better.   
  
He hovered by Hermione’s bed. 

  
“We should let her rest by herself, Draco. Come along now.”   
  
"I almost killed her, didn't I?" It was a rhetorical question meant only for his ears. He wasn't expecting an answer to the obvious.   
  
"That's an exaggeration. You see" - Nicolas was cut off by Draco's sharp glare. To which the dragon tamer-slash-healer reciprocated with a firm and steely stare of his own.   
  
Draco's glare softened slightly.  
  
"As I was saying, Miss Granger's wounds are minor. Nothing my healing salve, pain killers, and rest can’t  cure."   
  
"But if I hadn't lost my control, she would at least be conscious right now. Tearing my head off, or something."   
  
Nicolas raised a thin eyebrow.   
  
For the record, the man did not have the privilege of knowing Hermione Granger. She was fearless, reckless, and loud. Draco expected that of her.   
  
"If you weren't there, I might have -  
  
"Now, look here, boy." Nicolas grabbed him by the arm. "Yes, you threw some unnecessary shots, and yes, you are ten times stronger than her! That doesn’t  mean you wanted to hurt her. You said it yourself, she attacked you!"   
  
Draco was stunned into silence by the fierceness in Nicolas' voice.   
  
"There's no sense in dwelling in what would could have been. Do us both a favor, and don't act like a simpering ninny whose tears could easily be brought about by the inevitable." The older man ruffled his hair roughly, then clapped him in the back. "Deal with this like a man."     
  
"I" - Draco gaped.   
  
"Come along, we must let the lady rest."   
  
Draco knew the man since he was a boy, since his lycanthropy. Nicolas' formidableness, both as a wizard and a man, was of no surprise to him. After all, his occupation required a certain je ne sais quoi. But since when did he start listening to the old codger?   
  
_Since your life was turned upside down_.   
  
Great. First, he had to deal with Hermione Granger. Then next thing he knew, he was on the fast-track lane to becoming a pussy.   
  
"I must be off now. I'll send more healing salve and instruct Presto how to administer it to Miss Granger." 

  
  
—•—•—•—

  
  
Hospital beds creak in the middle of the night.    
  
Hermione was seven years old when she broke her leg and had to spend the night in the hospital. The room was dim, and the only light was the one bleeding from the blinds. Nurses shuffled through  their nightly rounds with coffee-stained scrubs and weary smiles. Hushed conversations along the hallways entered whenever someone opened the door.   
  
She remembered it as if it was yesterday.    
  
She didn't sleep well that night, so she resorted to listening to the faint voices, making stories out of the words she could make out.    
  
The door slammed shut. She didn't even know it opened in the first place.    
  
_ "How is she? Will she be alright?" A masculine voice asked while cursing under his breath.  _ _   
_   
Hermione heard him pacing, his steps flighty and abrupt.   
  
Where was her father? If she remembered correctly, he checked in on her that night.    
  
_ "She will wake up soon enough," another foreign voice replied.  _ _   
_   
Disturbing. Her physician, who was certainly a woman, sounded like a middle aged Romanian man.    
  
Hermione couldn't seem to open her eyes, yet her other senses had gone to hyperdrive. She heard the clinking of bottles against each other, felt the cool sting of alcohol on her skin.    
  
This seemed to be a different memory.    
  
Instead of crafting stories about nurses and fit residents having quickies in the Ladies' Room, a story of a horrible encounter loomed over her head.    
  
There were more words exchanged between the phantom men, but she couldn't understand any of them.    
  
_ “How is she?”  _ _   
_   
The question echoed repeatedly. Everything blurred in her ascension to consciousness. 

  
  
—•—•—•—

  
  
Hermione had the strangest of dreams.   
  
It was hazy and chopped into bits and pieces of confusing, intermittent narratives.   
  
First, she was carried by a man whose face she didn't recognize, weaving through endless, serpentine halls that seemed to change directions, depending from the light. Then the next thing she knew, she was reliving a weirdly modified childhood memory.  
  
The rest of it was lost to her, accessible only to the shadowy parts of her subconscious.   
  
Her face was bathed in the golden sunlight streaming from the parted drapes. Fine dust dancing in the light haloed her wild, distended, head.   
  
Hermione opened her eyes slowly, lashes fluttering. She squinted, moving her partially open eyes from the glare.   
  
She was supposed to lift her arms and shield her eyes, but she found herself unable to. Even commanding her arm to her bidding was taxing.   
  
Her body felt sore all over. Like frozen lead. She could barely move her limbs.   
  
With a pained groan, Hermione sat upright.   
  
Her head hurt. She could feel the throbbing of her pulse through her temples as she weakly massaged the spot.   
  
She gasped at the memories flashing back behind her eyes.    
  
 _Howling._ _  
_ _  
_ _West wing._ _  
_ _  
_ _Butter knife._ _  
_ _  
_ _Mask._ _  
_ _  
_ _Draco Malfoy._ _  
_ _  
_ _Anger._ _  
_ _  
_ _Disaster._ _  
_ _  
_ _Werewolf._ _  
_ _  
_ _Nightmare._ _  
_ _  
_ ** _Draco Malfoy._** ** _  
_**  
“Fuck!” White hot anger burned at the back of her throat. She wanted to hit something, preferably the blond arsehole. How could she? Not with the soreness eating at her body before it even had the chance to wake up. It frustrated her even more.  
  
Hermione felt powerless. She strangled the bunched-up sheets in her fists while angry tears soaked her nightgown.   
  
Draco fucking Malfoy.   
  
Why hadn’t she known it sooner? She felt like an idiot. The connection between the Master and Draco Malfoy was bleak, at first. But it made sense, once she connected all the dots. The strange, seemingly unfounded vendetta against her and Neville, his obnoxious attitude, his overall unpleasantness.  
  
What she didn't understand was how he ended up living in solitude in this part of France. How did one of Britain's most controversial men become a top-notch hermit?   
  
Her eyes swept around her palatial suite. It had been her prison for exactly two weeks, one day, and thirteen hours. Never had it occurred to her that this might as well be Malfoy's prison, too.   
  
"What happened to you?" Hermione asked out loud, as if Malfoy would magically appear and answer her question.   
  
Hermione had personally never heard or seen of Draco ever since his family's trial. Lucius Malfoy was  convicted of numerous crimes against the British wizarding world and given a life sentence in Azkaban. Narcissa Malfoy's passive involvement in Voldemort's tyrannical occupation during the war got her pardoned for her last-minute change of allegiance. Harry testified for Narcissa about her deliberate deceit to Voldemort, which kept him alive. The three of them - Harry, Ron, and Hermione - certified Malfoy's involvement in their escape and survival from Malfoy Manor.   
  
It was years ago, though. Hermione barely remembered the first few years after the war. Not that such a long time had passed - only five years. It went by like a blur to her. Through it all, she chose to focus on her work more than anything else, poured herself in making the wizarding world a better place. In between personal matters and drafting creature rights amendments for the Wizengamot, nothing else felt more important. Petty gossip and silly speculations about a man who chose to escape the wizarding world didn't really interest her.  
  
Although, Hermione was pretty sure she could remember what that rag 'Witch Weekly' had to say about it.   
  
"Stop thinking so much, the pressure shows."   
  
Hermione gasped, and turned her head to the source of the familiar voice, making her jump. The voice that haunted her dreams and just embedded enough information in her subconscious to plague her nightmares.  
  
The sudden jerk of her body sent pain creeping through her strained joints and muscles. She swallowed back the whimper of pain brewing in the base of her throat.   
  
Apparently, she was living a nightmare. One wrong move could crack this nightmare, and instead of waking up she would fall in an abyss.   
  
"I thought you were in the Bahamas," Hermione blurted.   
  
He cocked a sculpted eyebrow.   
  
She wanted to hit herself more than her desire to hit the man leaning by the door frame.   
  
Draco looked different. He was...older. Obviously. Last night, or whenever that night was when she finally discovered his real identity, she caught a glimpse of the defensive seventeen-year-old boy rigidly sitting on that rickety defendant chair in the Wizengamot, totally on edge, anticipating his rivals’ pulling the plug on him. She remembered that fierce, unyielding look in his eyes.   
  
"I never thought you patronized such literature. Curious, are we?" Draco shrugged his broad shoulders, but he made no other movement.   
  
If not for his sure demeanor and his propensity to act like a major arse, she could be convinced that he was hovering.   
  
"Hardly." Hermione eyed him sideways. He still didn't move. She searched for the remotest sign of lycanthropy in him.   
  
But there was none. His sharp, aristocratic features were serene in his nonchalant expression. No trace of the morphing face drowning in agony.  
  
Of course, that was silly. It was broad daylight. Perhaps paranoia was sinking in. But she had no choice but to grit her teeth to stop them from clattering. Survival demanded it of her.   
  
Draco made his way closer to the bed. The way he commanded his body was sure and purposeful. She couldn't help but compare him to Lupin. Lupin was awkward in his gait, like a man treading in a landmine-infested field.   
  
"How are you?" he asked.   
  
Hermione hadn't expected that from him.   
  
"How long was I unconscious?" Hermione chose to hold his gaze and straightened her back to feel the least bit courageous as she  looked.   
  
"Twelve hours," Draco said quickly. "More or less." He shrugged.   
  
"I slept for twelve hours?" She gaped, incredulous.   
  
The wrens outside tapped on the window panes with their beaks, their shadows shifting, based on their position from the sun.   
  
"The doctor gave you a dreamless sleep potion so you could  rest easier." He inspected the invisible dirt on his shoes. "You were having night terrors."   
  
"How much did he give you for that?" Hermione looked down at his bandaged hand, which wasn’t visible to her before.   
  
"It's nothing."   
  
"That's obviously not 'nothing'."  
  
"I'm asking about how you are, not the other way around,"he said dismissively.  
  
"I'm serious, Malfoy!" Apprehension vanished, but was replaced with curiosity and dawning concern. "Who did that to you?" She almost reached out.   
  
It was a disturbing wound. His whole fist was bandaged.   
  
"None of your business! What's it to you?" He snapped. His injured hand retracted and hid behind his back.   
  
"I don't remember inflicting that on you last night."   
  
"Your point?"   
  
"I want to thank the person who did." A semblance of a smirk pulled her lips.   
  
Draco blinked at her.   
  
"You didn't," she discontinued the thought. "Did you? Did you that to yourself?"   
  
"That's beside the point." Draco looked away, his face hardened. "Aren't you more concerned about why the hell you're here?"  
  
The subject of the suspicious wound was never forgotten - instead, she stored the memory in the back of her mind for another confrontation. His change of subject succeeded in evading her question. She wouldn't be able to wring a straightforward answer from him anyway; his walls were erected high and an air of finality cut the conversation short.   
  
She remained quiet as he dived into the mechanical explanations.   
  
Draco mentioned the mansion was an ancestral home in the heart of the Risle Valley. It was hidden to the outside world, only accessible to the Malfoys or their house elves. The last of both creatures, wizard and elven, that  stepped foot in the threshold before Draco, was long gone. According to him, the last Malfoy who occupied this place lived in the eighteenth century. Then it became his permanent address after the war.   
  
He looked out of the window while relaying the brief history. His storytelling was so lifeless she couldn't recall the details vividly, only the gist of it. But she knew that his unanimated narrative was hiding something else.   
  
For the first time since Hermione first found herself in a foreign fortress in the middle of nowhere, treating it as a beautiful prison, it never occurred to her that this could be Draco's prison as much as hers. There was still a stigma about the werewolf population from the wizarding world, and it didn't help when they supported Fenrir Greyback furthering Voldemort's bloody cause. Being a werewolf and a Malfoy wouldn't have helped Draco.   
  
She understood why he resorted to a semi-hermetic life in an undisclosed location in France.   
  
But that didn't mean she approved of how he treated her and Neville. Especially last night.   
  
Hermione did start that fight, but she wouldn't be caught admitting that.   
  
So she let the seconds tick by as he remained silent.   
  
No apologies, just a history and trivia. It wasn't enough, but if she wanted more information she had to look for it within these walls. A little sleuthing to find an escape.  
  
"Rest. I'll go." He padded backwards. Gone was the smooth, confident swagger. He opened his mouth and closed it again, then turned his back when no words came out.  
  
"You need something from me. That's why you kept me here. Why? What can you possibly want from me?" Hermione asked.  
  
Draco didn't stop walking. He sighed. "Just rest."   
  
"Malfoy wait! I'm not finished with you!"   
  
"What?"   
  
"I have one last question," Hermione said, voice low and resolute. Draco stopped in his tracks. "How did you become a werewolf?"   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally updated and chapters caught up with. Stay tuned for the next chapter. Thanks to my alphas and betas (same people). Please read and review.


	11. Don't You Mourn the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I said, don't you mourn the sun!
> 
> 'Cause darling, the nightmare has just begun
> 
> The nightmare has just begun
> 
> It's just began

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song lyrics from the song "Don't You Mourn the Sun" by Mimi

__**[Flashback]**  
  
_Malfoy Manor, 1997_  
  
"It's not his fault, Lucius!"

His mother. No doubt still defending him for his cowardice.

"He might hear you," Lucius shushed.

"Who, Draco? Your one and only son, the son you'd gladly pawn for your bastard of a Master?"

She sounded livid. But Narcissa Malfoy was the epitome of a pureblood wife. As beautiful and regal, as cold and unaffected as the statues of the ancient Greek and Roman goddesses his great-granduncle used to collect. Incredible pieces of art, immortalized in marble - unreachable to mere mortals and things of aesthetic beauty.

He'd never heard his mother speak that intensely to his father before. Or anyone else. She practically spat at Lucius. He could attest to the bone-chilling glares of her displeasure. That was enough to make anyone quiver in their boots. Or in his case, follow the rules, when he'd rather break them, just for the sheer high of breaking them.

"Both of them,  _ma cherie_." Lucius whispered.

Lucius never used pet names, as far as Draco knew. His father believed them to be distasteful and undignified. Even if the pet name was uttered in the refined, lyrical language of the French.

Well, anything Lucius didn't do was distasteful and undignified. Even if that meant being a decent human being, escaping at the signs of a setback and sparing his family from the crossfire. No - baseless ambition over survival was the greatest act of taste and dignity Lucius had ever accomplished.

Draco's head was reeling. He couldn't decide if his unraveling would be the result of his mother showing so much anger and resentment at the husband she ardently followed and adored in her own aloof way; or his equally-rigid father, who just referred to his mother as 'my darling' in French; who could be stroking her hair right this moment. Draco couldn't tell; he was eavesdropping from the hidden passageway adjoining his wing to theirs. But he was sure that his mother letting out a defeated sob before slumping to the floor would be the catalyst of it.

"Our son, Lucius! What will happen to him?" Her voice was a little muffled. Perhaps her face was buried in his father's cigar-smelling waistcoat. If he still smelled like cigars and French cologne, like he used to when Draco was a child.

Maybe not, anymore. Not only was it such a long time ago, but Lucius's stock of Cuban cigars would have been bled dry by the army of Death Eaters roosting in their own home.

"I don't know, Cissa. I'll see what I can do," Lucius said.

Draco nearly laughed outright.

There was nothing Lucius could do. He'd already done enough damage.

Draco held no illusions - mainly because he couldn't afford them. This wasn't the Ministry, where money equated to power and his father had a numerous amount of both.

This was war; and in war, power was power. His father had none.

Draco heard everything. From his mother's sobs to the swish of her skirts when she fell.

He'd once thought that the Weasley's Wizard Wheezes' Extendable Ears were a tacky invention. Though, much to his begrudging disbelief, he found them easy to maneuver, with their built-in anti-detection feature. They were more effective reconnaissance tools than the eavesdropping spells he'd learned over the years.

Draco couldn't even cast those spells in his own home anymore.

At least with these Ears, he had a little semblance of control. Ironic, isn't it? A Weasley granting a Malfoy some power.

Boy, how the Fates must be laughing.

Draco resigned himself to his quarters after that. His bed dipped at the side where his weight heavily settled.

—•—•—•—

There was a harsh knock at the door.

"Draco, open this door," a low, almost-hurried voice demanded.

He knew the owner of that voice all too well. Severus Snape.

Draco sighed, rubbed his face, then stomped to the door. "What do you want?" His question had a 'you prick!' lost in there somewhere, knotted in his harsh tone.

"Just open the door, Draco. It's for your own good."

Maybe it was just him, or he was finally going crazy; but Snape sounded...afraid.

Severus looked like shit. Tired and conflicted eyes hid behind an exterior of nonchalance. His robes were still the classic black ones he always wore, but they showed evidence of filth. Filth didn't stand out against black.

The door slowly swung closed with a creak behind him.

"What do you want?" Draco barked.

"Ready yourself. The Dark Lord wants to see you."

Draco paled. Then blanched to the extent of looking like a gauzy ghost.

"What does he want?" Draco resigned himself to the notion of a weighty and equally sick punishment. His face turned hard as stone.

"I don't know."

"You must know! What's the point of being the Dark Lord's favorite if you don't know?"

Draco's acidity wasn't lost on Severus. He grabbed Draco's collar. "Don't blame me for whatever you didn't do, boy." His chin trembled in anger. "I saved you, you ingrate! I promised your mother-"

"You're selfish! You only care about saving your neck, not mine!" Draco's nose flared, glaring at his Head of House with vehemence. He gritted his teeth so hard it felt like they could shatter against each other.

Severus let go of his collar, and Draco forcefully shrugged him away. Snape adjusted his own crinkled robes. Both of them were breathing hard.

"I risked my neck for you, Draco! If you can't believe I care for you, then believe that. We are Slytherins, you and I." Severus sighed, turned his back and headed for the door.

Draco wanted to hate his Potions Professor. Truly. He planted the seed of hate so many times, but it seemed incapable of taking root and growing in his heart.

As dangerous as caring too much was, Draco did. He cared about his mother, he cared about Severus; damn it, he even cared about his bloody father!

People who care usually end up doing things they shouldn't do.

He knew in himself that he couldn't blame his godfather. It was like the pot calling the cauldron black.

He sank down on his bed, tossing and turning at the slightest sounds outside the hall. Like hisses and things that go bump in the night.

Nagini must be in the middle of her usual rounds. The Manor now belonged to her as much as the Dark Lord did.

He hated that snake - that omnipotent snake. It constantly watched him ever since he came back from Hogwarts - a failure and a disgrace. Whispering in the Dark Lord's ear, serving as his eyes.

_BLAST!_  His door exploded into wooden smithereens and dust.

Draco jolted upright from his bed, then skittered backward until his back hit the headboard in the most undignified manner.

The dust settled, and a distinct, cruel laughter rang out. It prompted his insides to churn violently.

"Wake up, nephew!" Bellatrix barked. There, by the threshold of his previously-intact door, was his aunt - in all her deranged glory.

Bellatrix Lestrange was once a striking beauty. Her Black parentage blessed her with dark, luscious locks of hair, sharp features, and an elegant bearing. Fourteen years trapped in Azkaban hollowed her cheeks, appearing as if she was a skull with tautly-stretched skin for a mask. Her upper lip was permanently curled to accommodate only two expressions - disdainful scowls and malevolent cackles. Her eyes echoed her ruthlessness and insanity.

She advanced on him, grabbing his chin. He felt her sharp, dirty nails scrape his skin. "The Dark Lord demands your presence, Draco."

Draco recoiled, but her clawing grip tightened. He wouldn't say a word - because he couldn't trust himself not to spit. Or puke.

Bellatrix relinquished her hold. But her other hand swept from the side like a flash of lightning.

_Slap!_

His head sharply turned as she struck him.

"Don't you dare cower like that in front of the Dark Lord! You're a Malfoy, for Salazar's sake!"  _Slap!_  "And a damn Black, to boot."  _Slap!_  
  
Blood trickled down the side of his lip. His cheeks stung for a moment; but settled into a cold numbness, like his insides.

He remembered his mother's distressed sobs and undignified loss of her precious composure. They echoed in his head, haunting promised himself he'd at least be strong for his mother. And allowing Bellatrix to beat him to submission defeated the purpose.

"Take me to him, then." His defiant glare didn't waver as she forcefully tipped his head up to meet her eyes.

Draco was still a Slytherin.  _Survival over Purpose._  He had no choice but to obey. But if he was to walk into the monster's lair, it would be on his own terms and volition - the Malfoy way. A little dignity along the way wouldn't hurt him, Draco thought.

"Careful, boy," Bellatrix spat. "Your arrogance is legendary, but the Dark Lord's wrath is even more so. A disgrace like you isn't worthy of his time or attention." Her abrasive tone burned his ear canal. Equally atrocious breath clogged his nose. She sighed patronizingly. "I wonder why he wastes his favors on you cowardly Malfoys, anyway. But I suppose it's all in his master plan."

And who are you, Bellatrix, to question your Master? Draco thought wryly.

He spat out the blood that pooled in his mouth.

"Fix yourself." Bellatrix let go of his hair.

—•—•—•—

The halls were empty and the carpet felt threadbare against his bare feet. Draco quickened his steps - as if he was escaping from ghosts. He shot a quick glance at Bellatrix, who was a few steps in front of him; oblivious (he hoped) to the manifestations of his fear.

Draco's skin prickled as he trod forward. The path to the study lay ahead.

Last week, the Snatchers dragged three muggles through the same corridor. They were beaten and bloody when the slimy Snatchers presented them to the Dark Lord. Draco was there as they trudged into the room in shackles. His mother looked at the blood darkening the red velvet carpets. The house-elves had transfigured it to match the crimson stains.

The portraits in this particular corridor were either silenced or removed, as per the Dark Lord's orders. Any place in the Manor he frequented was stripped bare of portraits or 'distasteful frippery,' as the Dark Lord called it. He hated the noise, and anything beautiful, really.

Narcissa mutely nodded when he demanded certain things to be changed in the Manor. For a wizard so keen in keeping the pureblood regime dominant, he did not respect their traditions. Undermining the authority of a pureblood matron in her own household was a great insult.

Draco bestowed the long-overdue title of "martyr" to his mother. Merlin bless her for enduring such an innumerable amount of shit in this life.

"Wait here!" Bellatrix stopped in her tracks. She knocked an excitable tune on the wooden door. Her enthusiasm bled through her every move. She turned to face him, and her features hardened; so different from her sickeningly radiant smile of earlier.

"Now, look here, Draco." Bellatrix's spindly fingers fixed his collar in an almost motherly fashion. "The Dark Lord will grant you the mercy befitting your noble birth... and also the punishment you deserve."

She smoothed down his hair, trailing a finger down his jaw. "If you do anything to jeopardize both our families' places in the Dark Lord's ranks, I'll kill you myself. Do you understand, dear nephew?"

Draco suppressed a shiver and nodded stiffly.

The doors to the study opened just as Bellatrix smiled another one of her creepy, devoted smiles. Her jagged teeth glinted.

"Enter, Bellatrix, Draco." A raspy voice from deep within the study summoned.

Death Eaters masked in metal jostled him inside, where a conjured light with an unnatural green tint nestled with the snake.

The Dark Lord belonged - no, thrived - in the dark.

_Why couldn't he stay there?_  
  
The velvet drapes were forever drawn tight, never allowing sunlight to penetrate the study.

Dawn was breaking, yet it still felt like the dead of night.

"I'm glad you could join us, Draco." The Dark Lord's voice was infused with venom, heavy and imposing in the silence, despite the thinness of its rasp. "Where are our hosts? I imagine they wouldn't want to miss this little interlude." Slitted eyes bore down on him.

"Call them." The Dark Lord dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

"Yes, my Lord. Immediately." He bowed so low, his hideous underbite nearly scraped the floor. He smirked at Draco before skittering away to fetch his parents.

The wait made Draco restless. But that didn't frustrate him as much as being unable to act upon it. He couldn't afford the strange comforts offered by wringing his fingers or even biting his nails. Instead, he had to endure the smug sneers of the Death Eaters who once bent so shamelessly to the Malfoys. Draco hated every minute of it. Hated it even more than the time he took the Mark.

"Draco?"

Narcissa entered the study, flanked by Lucius and Rowle. She was dressed in a nightgown of corn-blue silk and her blonde hair was tied in a bun at the nape of her neck. "What is the meaning of this? Bella?" Her gaze shifted from Draco to Bellatrix. She still looked beautiful and refined, despite her confusion and fear.

His poor, unsuspecting, mother. Would she miss him as much as he would miss her?

_I'm sorry for failing you._  
  
Draco averted his eyes from Narcissa's. He felt her stare weigh heavily upon him.

"We are all gathered here today." The Dark Lord finally spoke again. All beady and malicious eyes turned to him.

He could literally stay silent, without moving a hair, for hours. That fact spooked Draco, and set his teeth on edge. Only the dead could stay so static for so long. Even an Inferi, the living dead, made more sounds than him.

A howl resounded from the grounds outside. The peacocks didn't croon tonight. They hid; as creatures with copious amounts of self-preservation, they also possessed incredible foresight.

"Ah! Our guest has arrived," the Dark Lord said, as if he was announcing an additional attendee to his tea party. If guest entrances were heralded by a rainstorm of broken glass and metal trimmings.

A dirty gray blur broke through the French windows. Draco didn't remember anyone uncovering them. Yet moonlight bled when a savage werewolf burst through.

"Hello, Fenrir. Did you have a successful hunt?" Voldemort greeted the howling werewolf, whose snout expanded widely, trapped in the transition between beast and human.

Fenrir Greyback's blood-matted fur retracted into his skin. His lupine musculature shrunk and molded back into human form. It looked painful.

"Milord." Fenrir stretched after his transformation as if it was nothing. His whiskers twitched like the good lap dog he was. The blood that coated his fur earlier did not fade like his monstrosity; it stained his already dirty shirt and breeches, across his neck and up to his cheek. The distinct pattern looked as if he'd powerfully slashed a fully-grown human being in one strike.

"Yes, milord. It was very successful." He licked his lips. "Many children converted tonight." His tone was wistful, no doubt reminiscing a delightful memory.

Draco's stomach twisted and heaved; yet he remained stoic.

Everyone waited with bated breath, looking at the Dark Lord for further explanation and orders. He only allowed a bone-chilling smile to grace his hideous face.

It happened all of a sudden. There was no chance of a struggle.

The Dark Lord muttered a levitation spell. It barely left his lips.

Draco was thrust into the air, paralyzed by an invisible force binding his limbs together. Nothing could escape his mouth - the sounds lumped together in his throat. He could only maneuver his eyes, and his vision was as clear as ever. His parents were bound in silver vines.

"My Lord, please!" Narcissa struggled in her bonds, squirming and screaming. She hissed as the bonds tightened and dug into her skin.

"My Lord, have mercy!" Lucius dragged out. His ponytail loosened and highlighted the effects of his scraggly stubble. Desperation and horror radiated in his parents' every movement. By the looks of it, they didn't even know what they were pleading for.

"This will only hurt a little, Narcissa. He'll live," the Dark Lord said mildly.

She cried harder.

Draco fell flat on his back to the ground by Fenrir's feet. He zoned out; physically present, yet somewhere else entirely. No sensation left to experience. Numb.

Fenrir picked him up by his collar. "The boy has a strong heart, milord. For a Malfoy, that is."

"As fearless as a Gryffindor?" the Dark Lord wheezed. Fenrir echoed him, even though the joke was lost on him. The other Death Eaters, save for Bellatrix, laughed.

"Not fearless; he stinks of fear." Fenrir made a show of sniffing him. "Thank you, milord, for gifting such a defiant heart to me. I enjoy a good struggle."

The werewolf searched for Draco's pulse, and turned his head to expose the side of his neck. He sank his fangs, straight through a vein.

The bite wasn't painful... at first. It was more of like a self-induced daze. He thought he was dying. Except the common descriptions of dying that he read in books and were babbled about by poets were...flowery, in comparison to how he felt, as expected.

Even death was overrated.

They said there would be a 'white light' beckoning him to the world beyond. There was none. Only the scene before him, that stretched for what seemed like a slow eternity. He marvelled how he could see every expression on every person's face as he lay dying on that polished, hard wooden floor.

Lucius fell to his knees.

Narcissa's mouth was wide open in a horrified scream. Then she clenched her hand to her chest.

Suddenly, it was over. Draco slumped to the floor as Fenrir dropped him like a broken marionette.

He twitched violently. Then his insides were on fire. It felt like his blood was lava, flowing through his veins. He gasped for breath, slipping in and out of consciousness.

"Defiant, you say, Fenrir?"

Fading.

Darkness.

"Malfoy?"

Hermione's voice pulled him back to the present. He was relieved and grateful she was there, or he would have been trapped in the grueling hell of his thoughts. He wouldn't admit it, but he was.

That irked him.

"Are you all right?" Her hand hesitantly grasped his trembling one. Soft and warm against his cold and clammy fist.

Draco snatched his hand from her like he'd been stung, and flexed his fist a few times.

Hermione looked taken aback, with her concerned brown eyes. She let her arm drop awkwardly to her side and lowered her gaze. She smoothed her messy hair - to no avail.

That irritated him even more. She caught him in a moment of weakness. She wasn't taunting him like he expected - no, wanted - when confronted with an absurd possibility such as this.

Never in a million years would he show her something she could use against him.

Her concern unsettled him. She looked embarrassed at what she saw.

With a brooding flourish, he exited her chambers. The door slammed behind him.

He was still Draco Malfoy. She was still Hermione Granger. And some things didn't really change.

—•—•—•—

Hermione watched him stomp away, leaving her all by herself again. She should be used to the  _Master's_  negligence towards his... guest, for a lack of better word. For all the heinous accusations she could throw at him, and for all the things she could call their present relationship, 'captor' and 'prisoner' didn't feel right at all.

She had to give him a little bit of credit. Draco must have a smidgen of conscience and concern in him to at least avail her of a healer.

Hermione was still a realist. Draco hadn't changed at all, if not for the physical aspect. He was still a major arse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I updated! Finally, right? I'm sorry if it took so long, but here it is. I want to thank everybody who read and support this fic. Thank you for the views, follows, and favorites. Shoutout to Nikki (Nevernik) and Sarah (sshanholtzer49) for alpha and beta reading, and Dorothy (dorothymalfoy) for the song rec. Please tell me what you think! (I accept everything).  
> 


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